Chapter 138 138

Chapter 138 138
Mia
The soft, rhythmic thud of waves crashing against the cliff base echoes through the open balcony doors of the nursery, a constant, soothing heartbeat for the house. The air here in Palermo is different than Naples—saltier, warmer, less weighed down by the exhaust of the city. The Vercelli estate sits perched on the edge of the world, surrounded by ancient, gnarled olive trees and scrub pines that whisper in the evening breeze.
I stand in the center of the room, my hands resting gently on the heavy swell of my belly. The crib is finally in place. It’s a masterpiece of white carved wood, surrounded by the snow-white decor I chose, it looks regal. Perfect. The walls are painted a creamy, soft ivory, the floors are covered in a thick, plush white rug that feels like walking on a cloud. Everything is ready. Everything except the final piece.
I know the gender. I’ve known for weeks, keeping the secret tucked away inside me like a precious jewel. The doctor had told us, but I asked her to write it down and seal the envelope, waiting for the right moment to break the news to Alessandro. After the graveyard, after the rain and the tears and the raw, open wound of his past that we finally stitched together, the timing feels right. He needs this. He needs to know that while we honor the dead, we are building a future that breathes.
In my hands, I hold a small, flat package wrapped in delicate silver paper. It’s light, but it carries the weight of everything we’ve survived. Inside is the wooden lettering, painted in a soft, vibrant pink. It’s a name. Daphiana.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a fluttery, nervous beat. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh paint and the lingering perfume of the lilies from the hallway. I turn toward the doorway where Alessandro is leaning against the frame, watching me. He’s traded his sharp suit for black trousers and a charcoal button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the intricate ink on his forearms—the lion on his chest hidden, but the power of it radiates off him. He looks tired, the lines around his gray eyes a little deeper, but the shadows that usually cling to him have lifted. The graveyard washed them away.
He looks at me, his gaze intense and burning, stripping away the distance between us. Even after all this time, after the forced marriage turned into something else, something terrifyingly real, that look still makes my knees weak. It’s a look of possession, yes, but also of reverence.
"Sandro," I say, my voice soft but steady in the quiet room. "I have a surprise for you."
He pushes off the doorframe, his movements fluid and predatory, closing the space between us with lazy, deliberate steps. He stops right in front of me, towering over my smaller frame, placing his hands on my waist. His thumbs graze the sensitive skin just above my hips, sending a shiver down my spine.
"What is that, little kitten?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remain focused on mine, searching.
He looks down at where my fingers clutch the silver package. I can see the curiosity flicker in his eyes, mixing with the warmth he reserves only for me. He isn’t the Don right now. He’s just a husband waiting for his wife.
"I want you to open it," I whisper, holding it out to him.
He takes it, his large, calloused hand dwarfing the small gift. He weighs it in his palm, flicking his gaze from the object back to my face, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, with a gentle precision that contradicts the violence he’s capable of, he begins to unwrap it.
The paper crinkles in the silence, the only other sound the distant hum of the cicadas outside. He peels back the silver, his brow furrowing slightly as he reveals the wooden letters underneath. He pulls the last of the paper away, letting it fall to the floor.
The letters are pink. A deep, rose pink that stands out vividly against his dark skin and the white wrapping.
Daphiana.
The air in the room seems to still. He stares at the letters, his eyes tracing the curves of each character. I watch his face, holding my breath, waiting for the crack in his armor. He doesn't cry. Alessandro doesn't cry easily; tears aren't his currency. But his eyes glisten, a wet sheen washing over the steely gray, making them shine like polished silver in the fading light. His throat works, a sharp bob of his Adam’s apple, and his jaw tightens, not in anger, but in an effort to hold back the swell of emotion threatening to spill over.
He understands immediately. He sees the names woven together. Luciana. Daphne. Diana. A merging of his lost loves and our new beginning.
"Daphiana," he breathes, the name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.
Before I can say anything else, he moves. He drops the letters gently onto the nearby dresser and grabs me, pulling me flush against his chest. It’s not a polite hug; it’s a crushing embrace, desperate and needy. He buries his face in my neck, inhaling my scent, his arms wrapped around me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I don’t want to. I want to be consumed by him.
"Thank you," he rasps against my skin, his voice vibrating through my collarbone. "Mia... fuck, thank you."
He pulls back just enough to capture my lips. The kiss is brutal and tender all at once, a clash of teeth and tongue that tastes of whiskey and desperate gratitude. He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m his air. I melt into him, my hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, needing to erase the last of the distance between us.
He breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down my chin, over my jaw, until he reaches the exposed skin of my neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, hot and wet, marking me, before slowly sinking to his knees on the white rug.
This sight alone is enough to make my heart stutter—the most dangerous man in Sicily on his knees before me. He rests his large hands on the curve of my belly, reverent and careful, as if I’m made of spun glass. He looks up at me, his eyes still shining with that unshed emotion, and presses his lips to the fabric covering our daughter.
"Hello Daphiana," he whispers, his voice low and rough, vibrating against my skin. "Daddy loves you."
He kisses my belly again, longer this time, his eyes fluttering shut. "I promise you, little one. I promise safety. I promise love. You will never know the pain I’ve known. You will have everything."
My own eyes burn with tears, but I blink them back, smiling down at him. I bury my fingers in his hair, stroking the dark strands, grounding him. "She knows, Sandro. She knows."
He stays there for a long moment, just breathing against me, connected to the life growing inside. Then, with a sigh that seems to expel the last of the ghosts haunting this house, he stands up. He takes the letters—Daphiana—and turns to the wall above the crib.
"Help me with this, kitten?" he asks.
I move to stand beside him, handing him the level he left on the dresser. His hands are steady as he lines up the name, centered perfectly over the headboard. It’s a permanent fixture now. A declaration. He steps back, surveying his work, and then takes my hand in his.
The room is complete. The white walls, the dark crib, the pink letters. It’s a sanctuary. A place where the past and the future have merged into something beautiful. It feels like peace. Real, tangible peace.
"It’s perfect," he says, squeezing my hand. "Just like you."