And partly because the last time Caterina hosted dinner here, I nearly died in her garden.
That fact does not leave me, and likely never will.
I stand in the entrance hall, adjusting one of the camera angles on the tablet in my hand, when Caterina appears at the bottom of the stairs.
For a second, I forget the tablet.
I forget the cameras and the gate, the staff, the cars scheduled to arrive in twenty-three minutes.
She is wearing a soft green dress that skims over her stomach, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, gold at her ears, one hand resting at the curve of her belly as she takes the last step down.
Heavily pregnant. With my child.
I still cannot look at her without feeling awe and amazement inside me.
It has been months since she told me, her hand guiding mine to her flat stomach. Months of watching her body change. Months of learning exactly how terrified and amazed a man can be at the same time.
I have seen combat. I have seen men live through things they should not have survived. I have seen fear and courage in more forms than I can count.
Nothing has ever undone me like this.
Like Caterina walking down the stairs with our child growing inside her.
She catches me staring.
Her mouth curves. “Perimeter problem?”
“Yes.”
Her brows lift. “Where?”
I look at her stomach.
“There.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile stays. “That perimeter is not your jurisdiction.”
“Everything in this house is my jurisdiction. Especially that one.”
“Not anymore.”
She says it lightly.
She has no idea how perfectly she has walked into it.
My hand goes to the inside pocket of my jacket, where the folded paper sits, heavy as stone and dangerous as a loaded weapon.
Not yet.
I tuck the tablet under my arm and cross to her.
She tilts her face up automatically, and I kiss her.
Softly.
Carefully.
Not because she is fragile. Caterina Conti is many things, but fragile has never been one of them.
