Page 116 of The Hidden Heir

“Baby!”

Valentina smiles through her pain, “That’s right sweetheart, the baby’s coming.”

EPILOGUE II

VALENTINA

“Do you like it?” Luca asks.

I look around, having already admired the décor of the place. It’s a lovely café with a bakery and large windows opening up to a small but well-traveled street. The exterior is the building’s original brick, while the interior is more 19th-century France.

Round tables and comfy chairs with handsewn cushions. Single narcissus blossoms stand in tiny glass vases everywhere, and Art Nouveau posters adorn the plain, off-white walls. The floor is old, creaky hardwood with a lacquered finish, and the bar and service counter are humongous, with giant refrigerated pastry displays attached on the far-left side.

“It’s gorgeous. Also, it’s empty,” I chuckle softly.

We sit at one of the tables. The lady behind the counter is busy wiping down every surface with a damp cloth while Michael looks after his sister in her carriage. He’s five now, a big boy and a good older brother.

“Charlotte likes it,” Luca notes, lovingly gazing at our daughter.

She has more of those beautiful Petrucci genes, but with my eyes. She’s a wonderful mixture, the best of both worlds, in her own way, just like Michael. And she is just as kind and gentle, just as warm and curious, and only occasionally mischievous—like a second child is supposed to be.

“She sure does,” Michael declares. “I like it, too. Is this the place, Papa?”

I love that Michael calls him Papa now. Luca has become his father, doting on him with just as much care and affection as he does our daughter. The children never sense a difference. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. But I’m curious and a little confused.

“The place?” I ask, looking at Luca with a question in my eyes.

Luca replies with a wry smile. “Victor is dropping by with the paperwork. We’re buying it.”

“The café?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I reply, almost laughing. “Not that I mind. I never doubted any of your business decisions, especially since you’ve been steering the entire Petrucci syndicate into more legitimate fields while also keeping the Camorra in check. You promised and you delivered to those old fools and then some. But why this place?”

He leans forward, warmth exuding from his hazel eyes. The dark glowers are for the bedroom, when he lets the passion consume us. We still can’t get enough of each other, and I find myself craving his possession whenever we find a moment to ourselves. In the daylight, Luca is like the sun to me. At night, I am his moon.

“Because you said you’ve always wanted a little coffee shop of your own,” he says.

I blink a few times, slipping into a momentary daze. I remember fragments of our conversations over the years—morning coffee, midnight talks, driving to and from, watching the kids play in the garden. He’s not wrong. After the Mancuso nightmare was over, I felt rudderless for a while, despite having Charlotte on the way.

“I lacked purpose,” I mumble. “It’s something I said to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and then I asked you what you would do if you could or had the time, the resources, and the energy,” he says. “And you told me that once the kids were old enough, you’d love to open up a place of your own with good coffee, fresh pastries, maybe some French and Italian desserts, and famous New York cheesecake, as well.”

“Comfortable seating on sidewalk tables, too,” I add, remembering my own words. Then look out to see wrought iron chairs and tables with glass tops and frilly designs. “So people can sit and watch the world go by while savoring a shot of Jamaican Blue Mountain espresso.”

“That’s right.”

My heart leaps as I realize what’s happening. “Oh, Luca.”

He laughs and gets up, motioning for the lady behind the counter to join us. “Constanza, can you join us, please?”

She’s in her late forties, with dark, thick hair and big brown eyes. She’s a woman who has worked hard for most of her life. Yet she carries herself with grace and poise despite the cracked skin on her hands.

“Hi, there,” Constanza greets me with a timid smile.

“This place used to be known as Il Gatto Nero,” Luca explains. “A staple of Little Italy, loved by locals and tourists alike. It was boarded up some years back, after the recession. Constanza’s parents couldn’t keep operating it on account of rising costs and whatnot, but they still owned the building. Last year, Constanza’s father passed away.”