Chapter 171 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 171 (Elena's POV)
Seventh month of pregnancy.


My belly was large enough that I could no longer see my own feet.


Putting on shoes was a battle every time—bending halfway before the belly blocked me, reduced to hooking the shoe with my toes and forcing my foot in.


Every time Adrian saw me struggle he'd crouch down to help, but I insisted on doing it myself.


"I'm pregnant, not disabled."


"You can't even reach your laces."


"That's because you bought shoes with laces! Buy slip-ons!"


The next day, three pairs of slip-ons in different colors appeared in the entryway.


With a note: "Lazy enough?"


I kicked the note across the floor.




In his spare time, Adrian worked on the nursery—walls painted a soft yellow now, warm, like being soaked in sunlight.


Curtains replaced with cream-colored voile that billowed gently when the breeze came through.


On the wall hung a drawing from Linh—a family standing beside a very large motorcycle. Four stick figures, the smallest one held in the arms of the largest.


Written beside it: "Welcome to the world, baby."


The crib was assembled by Adrian himself.


He read the instructions six times, screwed things wrong twice—first installed the base plate backwards, second nearly trapped his own hand in the railing.


I sat in the rocking chair watching him struggle, laughing so hard my belly cramped.


"You—" He held the power drill aloft, hair a mess, forehead drenched in sweat. "Could you please stop laughing."


"No."


"Your husband is building your child's bed."


"My husband put the panel on backwards."


He looked down—indeed backwards.


"…Fuck."


"The baby isn't born yet and you're already swearing in front of them."


He pressed his lips together and unscrewed, ear tips red as tomatoes.


The crib got built in the end.


White, sturdy, railing spacing meeting safety standards. A rotating music box hung from the headboard—little stars and moons, playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" when it turned.


Adrian adjusted the volume three times before he was satisfied.


"Too loud will scare him."


"How do you know it's a 'him'?"


"Intuition."


He stood before the crib, hands braced on the railing, looking down at the empty little mattress.


I walked up from behind—very slowly, belly too big—and wrapped my arms around his waist.


Face pressed to his back.


His hand came to rest over mine at his waist.


Said nothing.


Didn't need to.




Margaret came three times a week.


Each time carrying two enormous bags of ingredients, commandeering the kitchen from the moment she entered, no one allowed near.


"Shoo, shoo." She chased Marcus out with a spatula as he tried to sneak a taste. "This is for Elena, not you."


"Just one bite—"


"Out!"


My pregnancy cravings were bizarre enough to alarm even me.


First three months—only sour things. Lemons, pickles, peanuts in vinegar. Even orange juice wasn't sour enough.


Middle two months—suddenly spicy. Sofia brought me Mexican hot sauce once and I poured it directly over rice, eating three bowls.


Adrian's face went green watching.


By month six, nothing appealed.


Appetite so poor that seeing food triggered nausea—takeout, restaurants, even Adrian's homemade breakfast.


But Margaret's food worked.


I could drink three bowls of her chicken soup. Eat two portions of her steamed egg custard. Her red bean sweet soup—I scraped the pot clean every time.


"Why do you only eat Margaret's cooking?" Adrian stood in the kitchen doorway, holding his rejected Italian frittata, expression full of incomprehension.


Margaret didn't look up: "Because mine tastes better."


Adrian's mouth twitched.




The garage—I'd been gradually letting go.


Marcus had taken over seventy percent of daily order management—client communications to scheduling, all him.


When I told him, he froze first.


Then his mouth opened and closed, closed and opened.


Then his eyes went red.


Then—


"BOSS!!!" He nearly lunged to hug me but Sofia yanked him back.


"Calm down! She's pregnant!"


"I know! I'm just so excited!" He bounced in place twice. "Boss trusts me! I absolutely will not let you down!"


Pavel poked half his head from under a car, glanced at him, and silently withdrew.




In Sicily, the ports' legitimate operations were on track.


Uncle Simone video-called weekly—now stationed permanently in Palermo, managing all three ports.


"Catania Port's third berth renovation is complete," he read from documents. "Trapani Port's cooperation agreement with the local fisheries association signs next week. Palermo Port…"


He looked up at me.


"What?"


"Palermo Port's office building renovation is finished." His mouth twitched. "Above the main entrance—per your request—the family crest has been carved into the lintel."


A lily.


"Send me a photo," I said.


He pulled out his phone and held it to the camera.


On the white marble lintel, a relief lily gleamed in the sunlight.


Every petal sharp and elegant.


The new Caruso family—a legitimate enterprise group built on port logistics, automotive modification, and commercial real estate—was officially running.


No drugs. No smuggling. No underground dealings.


Clean.


Like my great-uncle said—the olive tree's roots must go deep.


But I would make it grow in the sunlight.




One afternoon, I was at home reading prenatal checkup reports.


My phone rang.


The name on screen made me pause for a second.


Luca.


I answered.


"Elena."


His voice was unchanged from our last call—low, steady, carrying that eternal just-walked-out-of-an-important-meeting composure.


But something else pressed beneath it.


Something very quiet.


Like a winter lake—surface frozen, water still flowing underneath.


"Something wrong?" I asked.


He paused for a beat.


"Nothing specific," he said. "Just wanted to tell you—if Adrian ever treats you badly."


He paused again.


"You'll always have somewhere to go."


Those words landed in the quiet living room, softly, like a feather touching water.


His tone—I could tell—wasn't provocation, wasn't resentment, wasn't some hint of "I'll take you back."


Just a promise.


One that came very late.


Clumsy to the point of being almost laughable.


But sincere enough to tighten my throat.


"Thank you," I said.


"Don't mention it."


Beep beep beep.


He hung up.


I set the phone on my knee, watching the screen go dark.


Twenty-three seconds.


The entire call was twenty-three seconds.


But he'd probably thought for a long time before dialing.


And thought for a long time about what to say.


In the end, just those two sentences.


Enough.


I leaned back on the sofa, palm on my belly. The baby moved inside—a very light kick, landing just below my palm.


I rubbed that spot.


"Your uncle says—" I whispered to the belly, then stopped.


What would I call him?


Uncle? Something else?


Never mind.


"Someone said that if Daddy's not good to Mommy, we can go to him," I said. "But your daddy is very good to Mommy. So you don't need to worry."


Another kick from inside.


Harder than before.


I laughed.




Prenatal checkup at University of Chicago Hospital.


The ultrasound room was dimly lit. I lay on the exam bed, clothing pushed up to below my chest, belly coated in cool coupling gel.


Adrian sat on a stool beside me, holding my hand.


His palm was sweating.


He was nervous beyond belief—though this wasn't the first checkup, every time he entered the ultrasound room it was like the first.


The doctor pressed the probe to my lower belly. The screen lit up.


Gray-white images floated on the screen—blurry, like a cloud swimming in water.


Then—


Thump. Thump. Thump.


A heartbeat came from the machine's speaker.


Fast. Strong. Carrying an urgent, desperately-wanting-the-whole-world-to-hear rhythm.


Adrian's hand clenched mine suddenly.


He stared at the screen.


The image slowly clarified—a small outline. Round head, curled body, one hand raised near the face.


The baby was moving.


A tiny leg kicked—the gray image on screen flickered with it.


At the same time I felt it in my belly—the same kick as at home, but now visible on screen.


Adrian's expression—


I turned to look at him.


His mouth was slightly open, eyes unblinking on the screen.


That expression—like seeing the most incredible thing in the world. Like being unable to comprehend how this gray, blurry little image could be so perfect.


"Everything looks normal," the doctor adjusted the probe angle. "Very healthy development."


She turned to us.


"Would you like to know the sex?"


"No."


Adrian and I spoke at the same time.


Same word. Same tone. Same moment.


We turned to look at each other.


Then laughed together.


"No," Adrian repeated, fingers lacing tight with mine. "Save the surprise for last."




In the car home, he never let go of my hand.


Other hand on the steering wheel, eyes on the road ahead.


But I knew his attention wasn't on driving at all—because he'd already missed two turns.


"Adrian."


"Mm."


"You drove past it."


He slammed the brakes.


"…Fuck."


I laughed so hard my belly cramped.


His ear tips went red again.


Once he finally got us onto the correct road, his hand returned to the back of mine.


Thumb gently tracing my knuckle—where his ring sat.


The oval-cut diamond caught the car's warm interior light with a flash.


I watched Chicago's streetscape rush past the window—highway traffic, sidewalk trees, the distant gray-blue line of Lake Michigan.


His hand was warm.


The car heater was just right.


The baby inside was quiet—probably tired from all that kicking, asleep now.


This was the life I'd chosen.


Not perfect—scars remained, some nights I still dreamed of gunfire in the church and blood in Palermo.


But warm.


Real.


My own.


I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes.


Adrian's thumb still tracing circles on my knuckle.


Ticklish.