"If you decided tomorrow you wanted out. Would he let you go?"
I thought about it. Really thought. "Yes. I think he would. It would destroy him, but he'd let me go. Because he loves me enough to want me to be happy, even if it's not with him."
"But you're not leaving."
"No. This is my life now. My choice. Complicated and messy and not at all what I planned, but mine."
Anna squeezed my hand. "Then I'm here. I don't understand it all. I'm still worried about you. But I'm here."
Relief washed over me. "Thank you. God, thank you."
"But I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"If it ever stops being your choice—if he ever hurts you or traps you or makes you scared—you call me. Immediately. And I'll get you out. I don't care about mafia wars or dangerous men. You call me."
"I promise."
"I mean it, Paola. Best friends don't abandon each other. Even when one of them marries into organized crime."
I laughed through fresh tears. "I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too. And I want to meet him. This Cesare who's supposedly so wonderful."
"Really?"
"If I'm going to be Auntie Anna to a mafia baby, I should probably meet their father."
The image made me smile. "They’re going to love you."
"Of course they are. I'm going to spoil them rotten and teach them to paint like their mother."
We talked for another hour. About the pregnancy, about the baby, about my plans for the nursery. About Anna's work, her dating life, all the normal things we'd talked about before my life imploded.
It felt good. Normal. Like a piece of my old life could fit into my new one.
When we finally parted on the sidewalk outside, Anna hugged me tightly. "Call me more. Send me ultrasound pictures. Let me be part of this."
"I will. I promise."
"And Paola? I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad you're happy. Even if I don't fully understand how you got here."
"Neither do I, honestly. But I'm here. And I'm okay."
More than okay, actually.
I returned to the penthouse exhausted but lighter. The conversation with Anna had released something I didn't know I'd been holding.
Cesare was in his office, on the phone with Piero, discussing shipping routes. He glanced up when I entered, held up one finger—give me a minute.
I nodded, settled on his office couch, and just watched him work.
This man. My husband. The father of my child.
How had we gotten here?
He ended the call, turned to me fully. "How was it? With Anna?"
