The months that followed were the happiest of my life.
My belly grew, and with it, my confidence. The partnership with Volkov stabilized both families, and the elders gradually accepted my place. Isabel tried one more play, spreading rumors that the baby wasn't Eric's, but Caterina silenced her with a viciousness that made me love Eric's mother even more.
"No one speaks ill of my grandchild," Caterina declared, her amber eyes flashing. "Isabel, I think it's time you returned to your family. Permanently. If I hear your name connected to any more trouble, I'll handle it myself. And you won't like how I handle things."
Isabel left, her schemes crumbling. But I knew we hadn't seen the last of her. Women like Isabel didn't give up, they just regrouped.
For now, though, I focused on the life growing inside me. Eric was observant of my health, my comfort, my happiness. He read every pregnancy book he could find, attended every doctor's appointment, and talked to my belly every night in Italian.
"Piccolina," he'd whisper. "Your papa loves you already. Your mama is the bravest woman in the world. You're going to be so loved."
"Piccolina? You think it's a girl?"
"I hope so. A little girl with your eyes and my stubbornness. We'll be in so much trouble."
I laughed, threading my fingers through his hair. "And if it's a boy?"
"Then he'll have your intelligence and my charm. Either way, we win."
At five months, we had the ultrasound. Eric held my hand so tightly I thought he'd break bones, his eyes fixed on the screen as the technician moved the wand over my belly.
"Everything looks perfect," the technician said. "Would you like to know the sex?"
"Yes," we said together.
She smiled. "It's a girl."
Eric's reaction was everything. He burst into tears, the big, terrifying mafia king, crying in the doctor's office. "A girl," he kept repeating. "A little girl."
"A little girl who's going to have you wrapped around her finger from day one," I teased.
"Damn right she will."
That night, he celebrated by making love to me with exquisite tenderness, his hands constantly drifting to my belly. "Thank you," he whispered between kisses. "Thank you for everything."
"Thank me by being the best father you can be."
"I will. I swear it."
At six months, I woke to find Eric gone from bed. I found him in the nursery, assembling a crib by lamplight, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Couldn't sleep?"
He looked up, surprised. "The instructions are in Swedish, I think. Or maybe German. I'm not sure which end is up."
I laughed, waddling over to help. "Let me see."
Together, we figured out the crib, then moved on to painting the walls a soft lavender. Eric insisted on doing the high parts while I handled the lower sections, constantly checking to make sure I wasn't overexerting myself.
"You know," I said, dipping my roller in paint, "I'm pregnant, not infirm. I can handle a little painting."
"Humor me. I need to feel useful."
"You're useful every day. You're the father of my child. That's pretty useful."
He set down his roller and pulled me close, paint and all. "I love you, Seraphina Moretti-to-be. I love you more than I thought it was possible to love anything."
"More than power?"
"More than everything."
Our kiss was soft, sweet, a promise in lavender paint. That night, I woke to him kissing my belly, whispering to our daughter in Italian. I pretended to sleep, letting him have his moment, my heart so full it ached.
When he realized I was awake, he smiled sheepishly. "Did I wake you?"
"No. But you can make it up to me."
He did.
He made love to me slowly, carefully, with all the tenderness he'd been saving for this moment. My pregnant belly pressed between us, a reminder of the life we'd created, and the intimacy was deeper than anything I'd ever experienced.
Afterward, he held me close. "I can't wait to meet her."
"Neither can I."