Chapter 2

I sent the message and locked the screen. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Inside Isabella's room, the conversation continued.

"Is this really fair to her? If it weren't for the baby, she would have followed you into that coffin. She doesn't eat. She doesn't sleep. It's killing me to watch."

Dante exhaled—long, heavy, the sound of a man who had already made his peace with the cost.

"Ivy only has six months left. This is the one thing she asked of me. I can't turn my back on that."

A pause.

"Anna and I have a lifetime ahead of us. I'll make it up to her—every single day, for the rest of our lives. Don't worry about it, Ma."

Something inside my chest clenched so tight I thought my ribs would crack. I pressed my palm flat against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor.

I made it back to the bedroom on legs that barely held. My knees buckled the second the door closed behind me, and I hit the hardwood, phone still clutched against my stomach.

Luca's call came through almost immediately.

"What happened? What's going on? You said Dante was dead—"

I opened my mouth to explain. Instead, a sound came out that wasn't quite crying and wasn't quite breathing—something between the two that tore itself loose from somewhere deep.

He was quiet on the other end. Luca always knew when to be quiet.

Finally, his voice came back. Low. Controlled. The voice he used when he was already planning.

"Day after tomorrow. I'll have a plane on the ground by midnight. I'll handle everything else."

The line went dead.

I sat on the floor, still holding the phone to my ear, listening to nothing.

A knock at the door.

"Anna? You in there?"

Dominic's voice. Dante's voice.

He pushed the door open, a glass of warm milk in his hand, and froze when he saw me on the floor.

"Hey—what happened? Why are you on the ground?" He set the glass down and crouched beside me, his hands hovering like he was afraid to touch me. "Are you crying? Is it the baby?"

Six years. I knew every micro-expression on that face. The way his brow creased when he was worried. The way his jaw tightened when he was lying.

Right now, he was doing both.

I thumbed the lock screen and slid the phone under my thigh.

"I'm fine. The baby kicked and I lost my balance. That's all."

He exhaled—relief washing through his shoulders the way it always did—and helped me up with both hands, careful, like I was made of something that might shatter.

"This kid's already giving you trouble," he said, and his mouth pulled into that half-smile I used to love. "Wait till he's born. I'll straighten him out."

He guided me to the edge of the bed and handed me the milk.

"Drink this. Get some rest." His thumb brushed my knuckle—quick, automatic, the ghost of a habit he hadn't killed yet. "Don't sit up thinking too much. Dante wouldn't want you hurting like this."

Hearing him say his own name in the third person—hearing him talk about himself like a dead man while his fingers were still warm on my skin—

I looked up and held his gaze.

"Are you sure you're not him?"

His eyes flickered. Just once. A crack in the performance so small anyone else would have missed it.

Then the half-smile came back, easy and rehearsed.

"Get some sleep, Anna. You're seeing ghosts." He straightened, stepped back toward the door. "I'll take you to your appointment in the morning. The doctor said the checkup's important—we're not skipping it."

The door clicked shut.

I sat in the dark, holding the untouched milk, and let six years unspool behind my eyes.

Freshman orientation. A boy with too much confidence and not enough subtlety, cutting across a crowded quad to tell me I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

I told him that was a terrible line.

He said it wasn't a line.

He was right. For six years, he was right.

The proposal on the rooftop in Manhattan—fireworks breaking apart over the skyline, each one reflected in his eyes. His voice cracking when he asked. His hands shaking worse than mine when he slid the ring on.

Then the pregnancy. The way he'd pressed his forehead against my belly and whispered, Perfect timing, principessa. This baby's coming to celebrate.

I didn't know when the man who said those words became the man behind that door. I didn't know how to make those two people fit inside the same skin.

I set the milk on the nightstand and didn't drink it.

Morning came too fast.

Dante knocked at seven. Showered, dressed, performing the role of the attentive brother-in-law like he'd been rehearsing in front of a mirror.

"Ready? The car's out front."

We were halfway to the door when Ivy's voice floated down the staircase behind us.

"Dante—I mean, Dom?"

She caught herself, but not fast enough. The name hung in the air like smoke.

"I don't feel well." She stood at the top of the stairs in a silk robe, one hand pressed to her temple. "Can you stay? Just for today?"

He didn't look at me.

He didn't hesitate.

He turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, his hand finding her waist like it had done it a thousand times before.

"Did you take your medication? Sit down—don't move around so much. What if you pass out?"

Then, over his shoulder, barely a glance:

"Sorry, Anna. She's not feeling great. The driver's waiting outside—he'll get you there safe. The doctor knows you're coming."

I watched Ivy's face over his shoulder. She let her eyes meet mine for exactly one second.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

I turned and walked out the front door alone. The heavy oak slammed shut behind me, and I pressed my palm flat against my stomach—against the tiny heartbeat underneath—and let the tears fall where no one could see them.