Chapter 154: I Survived a Bombing, but Can I Survive Parenthood?

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[Alex]

When I emerged from the bath, I let out a huge sigh.

The hot bath had helped ease the soreness, but the scent of Lorenzo still clung to my skin.

The maids had already restored the bedroom to a state of respectable order, getting rid of my nest, replacing the rumpled sheets and rearranging the pillows that had previously served as the architectural foundation of my nest.

The evidence of my heat had been cleared away with such impressive efficiency that I almost suspected the staff had received specialized training in erasing the aftermath of marital disasters.

One elderly maid was still arranging the curtains when I entered, and she turned with a warm smile.

"Your breakfast is waiting, sir. The Don asked us to make certain you had everything you needed."

I glanced toward the tray on the bed and promptly forgave Lorenzo for approximately seven percent of his previous crimes.

There were eggs, roasted chicken, fresh fruit, warm bread, several small dishes of vegetables, and enough desserts to suggest that someone had confused my bedroom with the dining room of a particularly generous hotel.

A little bowl of strawberries sat beside a plate of pastries, and there was even a glass of juice decorated with a slice of orange that looked far too elegant for someone who had spent the morning contemplating whether his knees still functioned.

I almost sobbed at the sight.

Absolute perfection... A beautiful view from the heavens!

"Lorenzo ordered all this?"

"Of course, sir."

"Of course he did," I muttered, settling cross-legged on the freshly made bed.

My kinda man...

The maid’s smile widened, but she politely pretended not to hear me.

I pulled my limited-edition slasher horror novel toward me, opened it to the page where I had left off, and began eating with the enthusiasm of a man who had recently discovered that his body was capable of consuming enough food to bankrupt a moderately successful restaurant.

My appetite had returned with spectacular force, and after a few bites of chicken, I decided that whatever else could be said about my marriage, at least I was unlikely to starve.

For several minutes, I managed to balance my book in one hand and a fork in the other, becoming so absorbed in a particularly disturbing scene involving a abandoned hospital that I nearly forgot where I was.

Then I looked up and realized the elderly maid was still standing near the door, watching me with an expression that was equal parts fondness and amusement.

I froze with a piece of chicken halfway to my mouth.

She immediately looked away, but the damage had been done.

"Um..." I lowered the fork slightly, suddenly aware that I was sitting cross-legged on a bed in a robe, inhaling the food as though someone might confiscate the food if I stopped for too long. "Would... Would you like some?"

The question escaped before my brain had the opportunity to remind me that offering a maid a piece of chicken while sitting in bed like a feral wild creature was probably not the pinnacle of refined aristocratic behavior.

She blinked, then laughed softly.

"That’s very kind of you, Donna, but I’ve already had my breakfast. Please, enjoy yourself."

"Right. Of course." I glanced at my plate.

I returned my attention to the book, hoping the conversation had ended before I embarrassed myself further, but the maid stepped toward the bedside table with something small in her hand.

She placed it beside my glass of juice, carefully enough that I might have overlooked it if the little bottle hadn’t caught the sunlight.

I looked down.

Then I looked again.

The label was unmistakable.

Plan B.

For a moment, I simply stared at it, my mind refusing to connect the discreet little bottle with the very large, very obvious consequences of everything Lorenzo and I had done during my heat.

Then the memories arrived all at once, accompanied by a sudden warmth that spread from my neck to the tips of my ears.

Oh.

Oh, dear God.

We had not exactly been careful, had we?

Judging by the amount of times I forced him to knot me over the course of four days, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was well on my way to getting pregnant right now.

Apparently, neither of us had had a conversation about the possibility of creating a tiny Castelli heir.

The maid folded her hands in front of her. "The Don asked me to give this to you, sir."

I swallowed, suddenly finding my chicken much more difficult to chew.

"He did?"

"Yes. He thought you should have the option, should you wish to take it."

That last part caught my attention. Lorenzo could be overbearing enough to make an ordinary household decision feel like a military operation, but he had not sent the pills with an instruction that I was to take them immediately. He had left the decision to me.

For some reason, that made the little bottle feel heavier.

The maid hesitated before speaking again, her expression softening into something more personal than professional courtesy.

"Forgive me for my boldness, sir, but may I ask whether... you intend to take it?"

I glanced at her, uncertain how to answer.

"I... haven’t decided."

"Of course. It is a very personal decision, and you shouldn’t feel pressured either way." She paused, looking toward the window where sunlight spilled across the freshly made bed. "It’s simply been a long time since there were little ones running through these halls. The estate has been so quiet for years, and sometimes I think it would be lovely to hear children laughing here again."

Her voice carried no demand, only a gentle wistfulness, as though she were remembering a happier time that had gradually faded into the background of the household.

For a moment I wondered if she had worked here when the Castellis boys were growing up.

If she had known Isotta back then...and missed those days.

Then her words confirmed it.

"I’ve worked here for a long time," she continued. "I’ve seen the Don grow from a difficult young boy into the man he is today. He has always carried more than he should have had to carry, and although he rarely shows it, I think he has a great deal of love left to give even as he is the way he is."

I looked down at the bottle again.

A child.

The words were simple enough, but the thought they carried was anything but.

My mind drifted unexpectedly to the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris, to the family I had seen there while Lorenzo and I were still pretending that our marriage was nothing more than an arrangement neither of us had chosen.

I remembered that little girl laughing as she ran toward her parents, and the entire scene had possessed an ordinary, effortless warmth that had made me look away before I could understand why it had affected me.

At the time, I had told myself I was merely tired.

Now I wondered whether I had been looking at something I wanted without allowing myself to admit it.

I imagined a small child wandering through the estate, perhaps with Lorenzo’s beautiful green eyes and my unfortunate tendency to ask dumb questions at the worst possible moments.

I imagined Lorenzo holding a baby with the same careful hands that had once held mine, his expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and terror because he could negotiate with dangerous men without blinking but might not survive a diaper change.

Actually, that last part was rather entertaining.

I could already picture him summoning the household staff to discuss the proper temperature of a bottle as though the fate of the entire underworld depended on it.

"Donna?" the maid asked gently.

I realized I had been staring at the bottle for so long that my breakfast had gone cold.

"I think..." My voice faded, and I cleared my throat before trying again. "I think it would be nice too."

The words came out quietly, almost as though I were admitting something to myself rather than answering her.

The maid’s expression brightened, although she was kind enough not to make a fuss over my answer.

"Whatever you decide, sir, I hope you will be happy."

She gave me a small, affectionate smile before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.

I remained where I was, the horror novel forgotten beside my thigh and the half-eaten breakfast cooling on the tray, while the sunlight crept across the bedsheets and settled over the little bottle in my hand.

I turned it between my fingers.

Did I want a child?

The question seemed ridiculous when I considered how recently I had been fighting for my freedom, how determined I had been to escape a marriage that threatened to swallow my identity whole.

I had spent so much of my life trying to ensure that nobody else could decide my future for me that the thought of willingly bringing a child into it felt both terrifying and strangely tender.

And what about Lorenzo?

Did he genuinely want a family, or had all that talk about breeding and putting a baby in me during our heat been nothing more than the unfiltered nonsense of an alpha whose brain had temporarily abandoned its responsibilities?

Lorenzo had spent much of his life believing that everyone he loved could be taken from him, and I couldn’t help wondering what the possibility of a child would mean to a man who had already endured so much loss.

Would he be happy? Terrified? Would he become so protective that our hypothetical child would need written permission to cross the garden?

Was I even ready for something like that?