Luca didn’t answer her. He kept staring at me instead.
“When?” he asked.
I knew exactly what he meant. When did I find out? When did I leave? When did I decide to hide his child?
But the truth was uglier than any answer I could give.
I discovered I was pregnant three days after I watched blood being washed from the marble floor of our penthouse.
Three days after Luca came home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes.
Three days after I realized loving him might eventually destroy both me and our child.
“I don’t owe you explanations,” I said quietly.
Luca’s jaw flexed.
For a second, I saw the man I used to know beneath the controlled exterior. The husband who once carried me barefoot through our kitchen because I complained the marble floor felt cold. The man who kissed my forehead while discussing murders on encrypted phone calls.
That contradiction had always been the problem.
Luca could love gently. And destroy mercilessly.
