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I clench and unclench my fingers, watching them almost dispassionately. “Yes, I knew. But I had to risk it. For her. Or him.”
I rest my hand briefly over my stomach, and his gaze drops to study my bump.
“How are you going to punish me?” I wish my voice wasn’t so husky. It betrays so much about the effect he has on me.
He is so big, so vital, that his very presence makes it hard to draw in a breath, let alone speak.
He opens his mouth, pauses as if considering his words, and then nods at the window. “We are here.”
His announcement is a convenient change of subject, and I huff out a frustrated sigh.
The limo slows and then stops in front of the grand portico entrance of the estate I spent so much time in before I ran. The estate where we were married, in the chapel on the grounds of this grand home.
Other than the obvious desire to not be here in Boston at all, my feelings about returning are conflicted. I keep wondering where Francine was when she was gunned down. I know some of Rio’s men also lost their lives in the gun battle here at the estate.
I’m not hugely superstitious, but even so, the thought of so much death right here in our home is unsettling. I’m sure there will be no trace of what happened, even though Rio by his own admission hasn’t been back since then.
The place will have been cleaned and restored to its former glory, and life here has no doubt gone on as it always has, just like everything in this violent world into which I’ve been drawn.
A kick deep inside causes me to start, and I gently rub my belly, drawing strength from the knowledge my baby is well and making him or herself known. The limo driver has alighted and opens the door for us, but I pause when I realize Rio is staring at me intently.
Or to be more precise, he is staring again at my pregnant stomach, as if he too felt that kick.
Impossible, and yet he knew. The baby kicks again, and I jump.
He reaches out a hand, then stops with his fingers outstretched midair. “May I…”
It’s his child. The thought ricochets through me like a pinball in an old-fashioned machine.
I ran from him to protect my baby from this life, from this world. But for the first time, it really hits me what I did to him.
I did the unforgivable. I took his child away.
6
“If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.”
Maya Angelou
Bianca
Rio has asmuch right to be involved in this baby’s life as I do. No matter who or what he is, saint, man, or monster.
“Of course,” I answer, reaching forward to take his hand in mine.
I guide him to where I felt the last kick. He places his hand over my swollen abdomen, the gesture surprisingly intimate, and there is silence in the vehicle as we wait. His head is bowed. He’s concentrating hard.
Just as I’m about to give up and suggest he move his hand away, another kick jabs at my insides. Rio lets out a strangled gasp. His eyes widen and his lips part slightly as he lifts his gaze to mine.
Tears fog my vision at the wonder in his expression.
I almost took this moment away from him.
I’ve been selfish, and even though I still think I did the right thing in trying to protect my baby from the world of organized crime, I cannot protect him or her from Rio. He has the right to know his own child. And every child has the right to know his or her father.
I donothave the right to remove their choice about being in each other’s lives.
“I’m sorry, Rio.” I squeeze his fingers, and despite my efforts to blink them back, a couple of tears escape. They drift silently down my cheeks, one dropping onto the back of our joined hands.
