Chapter 2

Luca

The memory of that night came in fragments. I remembered attending a cocktail reception. I'd had some drinks—not many, certainly far less than I usually did.

But I'd gotten drunk anyway. Drunk enough that I couldn't recall how I'd stumbled into the room or ended up in that hotel bed.

I only remembered scattered images—a heat burning through me that I couldn't explain, the kind that seared outward from my bones. It didn't feel like alcohol. It felt like something had been slipped quietly into my bloodstream.

I'd been lying in bed thinking I needed someone to take the edge off when I turned over and found a woman there, her silhouette soft and sharp in the dim light.

Her waist curved beautifully, her skin a warm tone in the shadows, thick dark hair spilling across the pillow. The line of her profile was so precise I thought I must be dreaming. I remembered her moving closer, remembered the sounds she made as we tangled in the sheets—sounds I heard with perfect clarity in the silence. Gasps, low moans, trembling pleas.

I'd assumed it was all part of the dream, until I woke the next morning.

The moment I opened my eyes, I expected everything to vanish the way dreams usually do.

But the woman was still there, real and asleep beside me. The sheet twisted around her waist, her bare back covered in marks of varying depth that rose and fell with her slow breathing. My throat tightened at the sight, and that heat threatened to return.

I thought to myself that if she wasn't a prostitute, I might actually be willing to keep her around for a few months. But the thought lasted only a second before rationality crushed it, because I clearly had more pressing matters to worry about.

The room was a hotel suite—upscale, but I had no memory of it. My jacket was on the floor. My phone sat dead on the nightstand. Whatever I'd drunk that night had contained more than just alcohol. I dressed silently and left without waking her. An hour later, I had Marco return to the hotel to handle the aftermath—settle the bill in cash, erase the surveillance footage.

That afternoon, Vito met me at the estate. He ran the tests I'd requested, and before the week was out, I'd already filed the entire incident under the category of things that simply happen in this line of work. Case closed.

Or so I'd thought.

"Are you remembering something?" Vito asked, watching me with the patience of someone who already knew the answer.

I didn't respond directly. I picked up my phone and called Marco, instructing him to find me everything about the woman who'd been in that room, that hotel, that night. Four minutes later, he sent back a phone number and a file attachment. I ignored the attachment and dialed the number. She answered on the third ring.

"Who are you?" I said.

"Who are you?" she shot back.

"Tell me," I said slowly, giving her the date and hotel name, "if you remember what happened that night."

Her breathing stopped for a beat on the other end.

"Did you take the morning-after pill?"

Then came the sound of her hanging up.

I stared at my phone for a second, then called again.

The moment she picked up, I said with forced patience, "This is Luca Ferretti. I don't care what your original plan was, but you'd better smarten up now. Making an enemy of my family isn't the kind of mistake you recover from easily. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Silence stretched on the other end.

"Luca Ferretti," she repeated slowly, her voice carrying a tone like she was tasting the name. "Who's that?"

I felt something explode in my throat. "You—you're fucking kidding me right now?! Did you take the pill or not?!"

"Fuck off," she said, and hung up a second time.

I stood, pacing my study with the phone in hand, temples throbbing, stomach churning with trapped air.

I called a third time. This time she spoke first, her voice unnervingly calm, laced with composed contempt.

"What do you want to ask? Think every woman unlucky enough to sleep with you wants to cling to you? Or do you think you can knock someone up in one go?"

"I tested positive for pregnancy," I said, enunciating each word clearly, "and you're the only one I didn't use protection with recently."

"You are absolutely fucking insane," she said, and hung up a third time.

I called again. An automated voice calmly informed me I'd been blocked.

"Try not to get worked up," Vito said from his chair. "It's not good for the baby—"

"I'm a man, Vito. Do I need to remind you that men don't get pregnant? I'm not going to manage my emotions over a condition that doesn't exist." I opened the file attachment Marco had sent while arguing with him.

"You're absolutely right, Luca," Vito nodded, his voice maintaining its characteristic calm. "Men don't get pregnant. What you're experiencing is sympathetic pregnancy. But right now, you're arguing with the mother of your child."

I forced myself to settle down and study the information on screen.

Stella Conti. Female, twenty-seven. From the Conti family. Mother deceased—complications from difficult childbirth. Raised her younger brother independently after that. Founded the luxury fashion brand Lumière from scratch, currently serving as CEO.

I knew of the Conti family, but only in that way you know of people who move in adjacent circles without ever truly entering each other's orbit. I couldn't even remember if I'd heard Stella's name mentioned anywhere before.

But once the pieces came together, the picture was clear enough—that night had been premeditated on her part. The drugged drink, the night without protection, all calculated. Because a woman who understood how families like ours operated knew exactly what a child carrying Ferretti blood could mean. She knew better than anyone. Her hanging up on me, blocking my number—it was all performance, letting time slip by, waiting for this fact to become undeniable.

I told Marco to arrange a car. I wanted to have a proper conversation with her face to face.

"Luca." My grandfather's voice suddenly came from the doorway.

I turned. Enzo Ferretti stood in the frame, leaning on his ebony cane, studying me with eyes that had never been truly gentle.

"You've lost weight recently," he said. "It's late. Where are you going?"

I was halfway through constructing a lie when Vito spoke up unhurriedly from his chair: "He's lost weight because he's been experiencing morning sickness, Don Enzo."

The room fell silent. My grandfather looked at Vito, then at me. The corner of his mouth twitched in a way I couldn't categorize.

Fortunately, my phone rang at that moment. I glanced at the screen—it was Claire Ashford calling. I nodded to my grandfather, indicating I needed to take the call, turned away, and raised the phone to my ear.

Her soft, honeyed voice reached straight to my core.

"Darling Luca, how have you been lately?"