Except carrying his children.
I press a hand to my stomach again. Traitorous hand. Traitorous body. Traitorous logic. But biology has very little respect for ideological distinctions. It doesn’t care about alliances or revenge, or who chose silence and who paid for it. It builds. Relentless. Efficient. Permanent.
I begin walking again, faster this time. Eight exits. No, from here: seven. The terrace doors are blocked by the hedge angle. Service gate visible. Greenhouse path. Iron-drive gate. Kitchen passage. Stone wall. Drainage arch. French doors reflected in glass, not directly accessible.
Seven.
I count again. Seven.
Good. Counting isn’t fear. Counting is discipline. Fear runs. Discipline measures.
I turn at the end of the path and walk back the way I came. The house rises ahead of me, lit in sections. Windows glowing where rooms are occupied, dark where they are not. A structure that breathes in controlled intervals.
His house. His system. His silence.
I wonder, briefly, where he is. Not because I need to know. Because not knowing feels like leaving a variable unaccounted for.
His study, most likely. Or the council room. Or walking through some part of the estate, making quiet adjustments no one will notice until they are already in effect.
He moves like that.
Irrelevant. Focus.
Seven exits. Still seven. None usable.
Unless…
No.
I stop that line of thought, too. Hope is inefficient. It leads to poor decisions and unnecessary risk. I don’t need hope. I need leverage.
Chapter 22
Contained
POV:Alessandro
I’ve known for three days.
The file remains in the second drawer, but I remember it precisely.
Pregnant.
Eight weeks.
Twins.
The ultrasound image is unnecessary. The information is sufficient. Two heartbeats. Viable. Early, but stable. The doctor’s notes are routine. Measurements. Dates. Language designed to remove ambiguity.
There is none. Evie is carryingmychildren.
The knowledge doesn’t change my routine. That’s the first decision. No visible adjustment. No shift in guard rotation. No change in access. If she notices a pattern break, she’ll follow it. If she follows it, she’ll arrive at the conclusion before I choose to give it to her.
Timing matters. So I let the system hold.
And I watch. She moves differently now. Not enough for anyone else to name it. Not enough for a report to justify itself. But the variance exists. Slight hesitation at thresholds. A recalibration of pace. The kind of adjustment that comes from accounting for something internal rather than reacting to something external.
She hasn’t told me. That’s the second decision: not to ask directly. Direct questions produce rehearsed answers. Or silence. Both are useless. She will reveal it in the space between what I ask and what she chooses not to say.
