An older man appeared, his face flushed. He bowed his head, and they had a conversation in Italian—his tone was obsequious, while Vito’s was curt.
The doctor didn’t introduce himself to me. He simply nodded profusely and led us both into a large back room where the lights had been dimmed and the shutters closed. Although there was a couch and an examination table, as well as a lot of expensive state-of-the-art equipment including what looked like an ultrasound machine, the room smelled of lavender and fresh linen and was luxuriously decorated. A far cry from the tiny midwife’s office in my local clinic back home.
The obstetrician handed me a gown and said in perfect English, ‘Please take off your clothing and get on the examination table.’ But he didn’t make eye contact.
I could sense his fear, though. What had Vito threatened him with to get him to see me at this hour, I wondered? Then tried not to think about it. I already knew how ruthless Vito was. Dwelling on it wasn’t going to make my life easier.
As I went to put on the gown, Vito seated himself in an armchair with a view of the examination table, clearly planning to watch the whole thing. I tried not to let it intimidate me. He was the father of this child, and not acknowledging that fact until now had been a mistake.
But as he lounged in the armchair, it made me think of a panther watching his prey. His gaze raked over me with that unsettling combination of awareness and arrogance. The devastating once-over had sensation sinking into my abdomen again as I headed to the screen in the far corner of the room.
I stripped as quickly as I could. The gown was one of those surgical things which was wide open at the back, so I kept my panties on. Even so, I felt hopelessly exposed as the doctor helped me to climb onto the examination table. As I sat there feeling small, aware of Vito watching me, the doctor asked me a series of routine questions while he checked my blood pressure, reflexes, breathing and a whole host of other things the midwife in London had never bothered with. Exhaustion started to overwhelm me, the obstetrician’s calm, patient voice soothing in the shadowy room, the questions similar to ones I had answered before about my medical history.
‘What was the date of your last menstruation?’ he asked softly as he finished taking a series of blood samples and untied the tourniquet.
Before I could remember the answer, though, Vito replied from the shadows in Italian, ‘Il bambino è stato concepito il dieci maggio.’
I’d almost forgotten he was there. But my tired mind translated the relevant wordsbambino,concepitoanddieci maggioas the doctor scribbled the information in his notes.
Vito leant into the pool of light cast by the lamp beside his chair to rest forearms roped with muscle on his knees. The array of tattoos on the tanned skin made him look even wilder and more dangerous as his hot gaze swept over me, branding my skin.
The tenth of May was the night our baby had been conceived. The confidence with which he announced it felt like a declaration of his ownership. Not just of the baby, but also of me.
Brutal emotion blindsided me—the possessiveness in those crystal-blue eyes both terrifying and strangely intoxicating.
The fierce memories of that night, when he had got me pregnant…and all those hazy memories from my childhood, constantly dreaming about the dad I’d made up in my head, who would appear one day and want me—and Evie, even though he wasn’t even her dad—and take care of us the way our mum never had, merged in my consciousness.
I shivered and looked away, trapped in that possessive gaze, aware now I was bound to Vito in a way I could never undo. That I wasn’t sure I wanted to undo that connection only disturbed me more.
‘Lie down and I will do a scan,’ the doctor said, snapping me out of my own thoughts.
But as I lay back, I was far too aware of Vito’s watchful presence. My emotional state was so raw my skin felt tight, while my sex was still felt tender from Vito’s attentions on the plane.
The doctor switched on the equipment and lubricated the probe. I listened to the mechanical hum of the machine booting up and tried not to read too much into the intimacy of this moment, when Vito would see our baby for the first time.
I stared at the ceiling to gather myself, blinking back the tears that wanted to leak out as the doctor lifted the robe to expose my belly while carrying on a conversation in Italian with Vito.
Vito was asking a lot of questions, none of which I could understand.
The cold wand was placed on my belly. The rapid pulse of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room.
I turned my head to stare at the monitor. Brutal emotion overwhelmed me again. Unlike the scans I’d had in London, this machine’s picture quality was much clearer and gave a three-dimensional image of my uterus. I could see the baby’s face, its features, its tiny hands and fingers, the curve of its spine as it curled in on itself.
Love washed through me—swiftly followed by fear—as I realised how vulnerable that little life was. And how easily it could be harmed. Then a stark, damning realisation followed. How could I ever have believed I could protect this baby on my own?
The doctor spoke in Italian, clearly giving Vito all the information I wanted to hear too. I lifted my head to ask them to speak in English, but what I saw on Vito’s face as he watched the pictures on the monitor shocked me into silence. He was staring at the image as he fired questions at the doctor in Italian, but the cynical smile was gone. For the first time since he had appeared in my kitchen, I caught a glimpse of the man I had coaxed out of hiding five long months ago. The man who had taken me with such passion, but had also been playful and even tender as well as dominant.
‘What is the doctor saying?’ I whispered, desperate not to break that spell.
Vito’s gaze lurched to mine. He blinked as if waking from a trance. But the shimmer of wonder remained for a few seconds more. And foolish hope blossomed under my breastbone.
However ruthless he was, however dominating and controlling, seeing his child for the first timehadhad an impact on him.
‘He says you and the foetus are healthy and strong. But the baby is large, and you are small.’
My heart lurched at the pride in his voice.
Before he said anything more, though, the doctor began to take a series of measurements with the equipment, interrupting us to relay the information to Vito in Italian.
