I'd been watching the guard rotations for days, timing their movements between bouts of exhaustion that hit harder at eight weeks than they had at six. My body was changing in ways I couldn't control—the morning sickness had intensified, and I'd learned to keep crackers by the bed. But my mind was still sharp. I could still observe. Still plan.
Angelo always set his keycard down when reviewing the monitors—muscle memory from years of routine. Three seconds. Long enough, even when dizziness occasionally made my reactions slower than I'd like
The burner phone I'd hidden weeks ago remained tucked away, unused but available. A safety net I wasn't sure I'd ever need. Or want to use.
I thought about calling Isabella, just to hear her voice. But Luca's security monitored everything. One call could lead Giuseppe right to her boarding school. Could put a target on my baby sister's back.
No. Isabella stayed safe as long as she stayed separate from this world. As long as Giuseppe thought I had no weaknesses he could exploit.
Even if it meant she thought I'd abandoned her.
"Come with me," Luca said suddenly, breaking through my thoughts.
I hesitated, studying his face. Behind the carefully controlled expression, I could see the weight he carried—decisions that kept him awake, losses that ate at him. The slight tightness around his eyes that spoke of headaches he'd never admit to having.
But when he extended his hand, something in his eyes stopped my protest. Vulnerability. Need. He needed this. This moment of normalcy, of connection. And despite everything, so did I.
He led me to a hidden elevator I hadn't noticed before, pressing his palm to a biometric scanner. The doors opened, revealing a sleek lift that carried us up—past the basement levels, past the main club floor, to a private level above.
"My personal space," he explained as the doors opened. "Separate from the business operations."
The club's private lounge was stunning—high ceilings with exposed beams, plush velvet seating in deep sapphire blue, a polished bar, and a small dance floor bathed in soft amber lighting.
"It's closed tonight," he explained. "No one will disturb us."
Gentle music began to play—a jazz piece that seemed to emerge from hidden speakers, the melody slow and intimate.
"Mia nonnaalways said you could tell a man's character by how he danced," Luca said unexpectedly, extending his hand. "She made me learn every traditional dance fromSicilia. The Tarantella, jumping around like a fool." I must have looked surprised because he added, "My cousins have videos. I was twelve and mortified. Then she taught me respectable dances—waltz, tango, foxtrot—for public appearances."
I should have refused. Instead, I placed my hand in his.
We moved together with surprising ease, as if our bodies remembered something our minds had tried to forget. His hand on my waist was firm but gentle, guiding me across the floor with practiced confidence. The space between us gradually diminished until my head rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
I could feel every plane of his body against mine—the solid muscle of his chest, the strength in his arms as he guided me. Heat radiated from where his hand rested on my waist, his thumb occasionally stroking small circles that sent shivers up my spine.
When I looked up at him, his eyes were already on me, dark with an intensity that had nothing to do with dancing. His hand tightened on my waist, pulling me closer, until there was no space left between us. I could feel his heartbeat quicken, matching the rhythm of my own.
"Sienna," he murmured, my name a rough whisper.
The way he said it—like a prayer, like a curse—made heat pool low in my belly.
"Your grandmother taught you to dance?" I asked, surprise coloring my voice.
"Mamma insisted," he said, the Italian slipping out unconsciously. "Said a Romano man who couldn't lead a woman properly wasn't worthy of the name. She died when I was fifteen."
The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard. This was Luca stripped of his armor, sharing pieces of himself I'd never expected to see.
A wave of emotion crashed over me. I pressed my palm against my still-flat stomach, thinking of the life growing there—barely eight weeks along, invisible to the world but becoming more real to me each day.
"What is it?" Luca asked, his voice dropping to that protective register I'd learned to recognize.
"It's real, isn't it?" I whispered, my hand still pressed to my stomach. "This baby we made."
His eyes met mine, something raw in their depths. Hesitantly, as if afraid I might pull away, he placed his hand beside mine on my stomach. His palm was warm, large enough to span my abdomen completely.
"Yes," he said. "Our child.
For a moment, neither of us moved, his hand warm over mine, both of us connected to the invisible life between us.
