Something flickers across his face. "My mother's name was Lucia," he says quietly. "If it's a girl, maybe—" He stops and shakes his head. "Never mind. That's stupid."
"It's not stupid." I lean forward, my heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. "Lucia is beautiful. If it's a girl, we could?—"
"We'll see." He cuts me off, but not unkindly. "We have time to decide."
The moment passes, but something about it feels significant. He’s never mentioned anything about his mother or his family before. It feels like he offered me a piece of himself he didn't have to give.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. Luca is still keeping his distance emotionally. He still hasn't said he forgives me. But he asks about the baby and talks about the future. He looks at me sometimes like he's fighting not to reach for me.
I don't know what it means. I don't know if this is just him being responsible or if it's something more, if I should let myself hope, or if I'm just setting myself up for more heartbreak.
But as I drift off to sleep, I can't help but think about the way he held my hand in the hospital. The way he refused to leave. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I can’t help but think that maybe there’s a chance he’s starting to forgive me.
Like maybe there's a chance for us after all. And I can't help the small, fragile hope that's starting to take root in my chest.
The hope that maybe, eventually, this marriage could become something real. Something worth fighting for.
Something that might actually survive.
24
GIULIA
Aweek later, after I’ve had a doctor’s appointment that declared the baby and me in excellent health, I have a charity event I’m supposed to go to. Alone, because Luca has other obligations tonight, and I can tell that’s chafing at him for some reason. It’s strange, because I would think he’d be grateful for a reason not to have to be at my side and play the devoted husband when he’s anything but.
Except… the way he’s been since the hospital, he could almost fit that description.
He’s tense and jittery as we have breakfast that morning. He checks his phone every thirty seconds, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping. "Are you okay?" I ask finally, setting down my tea.
He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite read. "I need you to listen to me very carefully," he says. His voice is controlled but strained. "Tonight at the event?—"
"The charity gala?" I'm confused. It's just a fundraiser. I've been to dozens of them. "What about it?"
"I'm assigning you an extra security detail." He pulls out his phone, scrolling through contacts. "They'll stay close but not obvious."
"Luca, I don't need?—"
"Yes, you do." He cuts me off, his eyes intense. "You stay in public areas. You don't go anywhere alone. If anything—and I meananything—feels off, you leave immediately. You call me, and then you get out."
The intensity in his voice makes my stomach tighten with unease. "What's going on? Why are you?—"
"Just promise me you'll be careful and stay where people can see you. That you won't take any risks."
"I promise." The words come out automatically, but I'm studying his face, trying to understand. "But you're scaring me. What's happening tonight?"
"Nothing you need to worry about." But the way he says it tells me he's lying. "Just... be careful. Please."
He's never said please to me before. Not like this, with this desperate edge to his voice.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll be careful."
He nods, but he doesn't look reassured. "The detail will pick you up at seven.”
"Where will you be?"
"Working." The word is clipped. "I have something I need to handle tonight."
An operation. That's what this is about. Something dangerous enough that he's worried about me being exposed while he's occupied elsewhere. The realization makes my chest tighten. He's protecting me. Assigning guards, giving me instructions, making sure I'm safe while he's doing whatever violent thing my father has ordered him to do. It's his responsibility, his obligation.
