I stood against the wall with my hand pressed to my stomach, and I understood, with a clarity that cut through the pain like a blade, exactly what kind of woman had moved into my home.
"I'm sorry, Giovanna. I was wrong. I wouldn't dare dream of marrying Tomasso anymore. I'll take the baby and go far away. Please, I'm begging you, just stop hurting us, okay?"
"What are you doing? Putting on another act?"
The pain in my abdomen was getting worse. A dark premonition crept through me, cold and certain, the way you feel the air change before a storm rolls in off the harbor. Terrified that something was actually happening to my baby, I moved toward the door to find a doctor, but it swung open before I could reach it.
A crowd stood in the doorway. Soldiers. Associates. The inner circle of the Rossetti household, still dressed in the dark suits they wore to every formal occasion, still carrying themselves with the quiet vigilance of men who lived inside a world where doorways were always dangerous. And at the front, Tomasso.
The moment he saw Catarina and the baby on the floor, the infant screaming in raw, bloodcurdling wails that bounced off the sterile hospital walls and filled the corridor beyond, the color drained from his face. He dropped the bowl of porridge in his hands without a second thought. The ceramic shattered against the tile, and not a single man behind him flinched. He rushed over and scooped the baby up, cradling the child against his chest with hands that had broken bones and signed death warrants and never once trembled the way they trembled now.
"What happened? We were gone ten minutes. What the hell happened?"
"Tomasso..."
Catarina lifted her face. The handprints across her cheek were vivid and unmistakable. Three of them, layered, the kind of marks that told a story all on their own.