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I smiled. “I love you, too, honey.”
He turned to his dad and spoke in Italian—telling him in no uncertain to be nice to me or he’d turn his oxygen off.
Marcello let go of my hands and grabbed Carlo’s arm. He pulled his son down for a hug. They both laughed until Marcello began to cough. And cough.
It wasn’t the sound of a cold or virus. This was something else.
And that something else wasn’t good.
Not at all.
Once he settled back to breathing like he had before, Carlo left us and joined his mother.
“Carlo tells me you have a daughter?”
This time, I reached for his hand. It was cold and clammy now. “Yes, her name is Daniella.”
He took a deep, raspy breath. “Daniella? That is a very beautiful name for a girl. We love our girls, Giselle. Girls are the very heart of a family. You know? Where I’d be without my wife,” he shook his head, “I don’t even want to think. She’s my rock. My reason for living.” His eyes got teary, but I knew he’d never dare let a tear fall out of those eyes.
“Yes, women and the love they give make our world go round.” His big hand squeezed mine. Hard. “But Carlo needs a boy, first. Do you understand that?” He leveled his gaze at me in an almost scary way. As if he were trying to frighten off any potential female babies from even considering implanting in my womb.
Okay.
It was definitely scary.
“Yes, Marcello, I understand,” I said, and the weird thing was—I did. But I didn’t know why. All I knew for certain was that the strong, severe, almost desperate way he was speaking—forced me to understand.
Even though I really didn’t know why Marcello was so insistent.
“Good, Giselle. Now tell me, can you give my son a son of his own?” Marcello’s voice was just as formidable as his presence. I wondered what he’d been like at his prime.
And then I gazed over at Carlo.
And I had my answer.
He was the exact carbon copy of his father.
Just a few decades or so younger.
I gave Marcello the answer he wanted.
Not the truthful answer.
Because let’s face it, that was the only acceptable answer given the circumstances. I had a feeling that giving him the real answer might get me handcuffed to Carlo’s bed for nine months.
I set my other hand on top of our already joined ones and said, “Yes, Marcello. I can give Carlo a son.”
And I swear I had only meant that answer to placate Marcello.
But after I uttered those words—it felt like I’d just offered up a prayer. Every inch of my skin tingled, and I felt more than a little breathless.
Marcello gave me a smile that was identical to his son’s. “Molto bene, Giselle. This makes me happy.”
The way he looked at me—it felt like he could see directly into my soul. He’d barged right in and there was nothing I could do to shelter myself.
“You love my son very much.” His eyes continued staring into mine. I nodded—unable to speak. “He is a large, powerful man. And there will be times when you feel small and unimportant.”
My lungs stopped moving at this point. Marcello sounded like some kind of mystic or something. And it kind of freaked me out.
