I deleted the message, then initiated the security protocol that would wipe the phone's memory. Eight months ago, I'd have considered this information merely strategic. Now, it felt like the final weight lifting from my shoulders.
Sophie looked up from her gardening, shielding her eyes against the sun. Even from this distance, I could see the question in her gaze.
"It's Enzo," I called. "Everything's settled. No one's looking for us anymore."
She abandoned her basket of herbs and walked toward me, one hand supporting her lower back. At eight months, every movement had become deliberate, measured.
"You're sure?" she asked when she reached me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of deception. Old habits died hard for her, too.
I brushed a strand of red hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I'm sure. It's really over, Sophie. We're truly free."
Her smile bloomed slowly, like the sunrise we watched together each morning. She leaned into me, her belly pressing against mine, our child between us.
"Free," she repeated, testing the word as if it might dissolve on her tongue. "I'm not sure I remember what that feels like."
I kissed her forehead. "Then we'll learn together."
The nursery had become my sanctuary over the past months. Where once I'd found solace in violence and control, I now found it in the patient work of my hands—sanding wood until it was satin-smooth, measuring twice before cutting, applying coat after coat of non-toxic paint.
I'd built everything myself: the crib with its gently curved rails, the changing table with clever storage compartments, the rocking chair where Sophie already spent hours reading aloud to our unborn son. Even the small bookshelf was filled with children's books in three languages—English, Italian, and Portuguese. Our son would know his heritage but wouldn't be defined by it.
The afternoon light slanted through the windows as I hung the final piece—a mobile of hand-carved wooden boats and fish that would drift above the crib. I'd worked on it secretly during the evenings after Sophie had fallen asleep, each piece shaped and smoothed with care.
I stepped back to assess my work. The room was painted in soft blues and whites, reminiscent of the ocean that surrounded us. A large rug in a deeper blue covered the tile floor. On the walls hung framed illustrations from children's books and photographs of coastlines from around the world—places we might take him someday.
The irony wasn't lost on me. These hands that had once broken bones and pulled triggers had created this peaceful haven. I looked down at my palms, calloused now from woodworking rather than violence.
"It's beautiful."
I turned to find Sophie in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, her face soft with wonder. She'd changed into loose linen pants and one of my shirts, her hair pulled back in a messy knot.
"You finished the mobile," she said, crossing to the crib. "When did you have time for this?"
"While you were sleeping." I joined her, standing close enough to feel her warmth. "You've been tired lately."
She reached up to touch one of the carved boats, setting the entire mobile in gentle motion. "Growing your son is exhausting work,Marcus."
I placed my hand on her belly, feeling the strong kick that followed. "He's active today."
"He never stops." She covered my hand with hers. "Like his father—always moving, always planning."
I smiled at the comparison. "Let's hope he inherits your patience instead."
She laughed, the sound filling the nursery with life. "We still haven't decided on his name."
We'd been circling this conversation for weeks, each of us hesitant to finalize this most important decision. Names had power—we both understood this truth deeply.
"What about Luca?" she suggested, her eyes on the mobile still turning gently above the crib. "It means 'light' in Italian."
"Luca," I repeated, testing it. Not a family name—we'd agreed on that. Nothing to tie him to the Ricci legacy.
Sophie turned to face me, her eyes serious now. "A name for a boy who'll never know darkness."
I felt something tighten in my chest—not pain, but a fullness I was still learning to recognize. I placed both hands on her belly, feeling our son shift beneath my touch.
"Luca Blackwood," I said softly. "It's perfect."
Dr. Martinez had been carefully selected—a retired obstetrician who valued discretion and had agreed to handle Sophie's delivery privately. His small clinic overlooking the ocean was only fifteen minutes from our villa. It was staffed with nurses who asked no questions about the wealthy foreign couple who'd appeared in their small coastal town.
