Chapter 5

I stood in the middle of the empty room, a sharp ringing filling my ears. I hung up and opened my phone, scrolling through Serena's account. She kept everything public, like someone who wanted to be seen.

I scrolled down a few posts. Her dog was wearing a tiny outfit I recognized. Soft cotton, hand-washed and ironed flat, now chewed shapeless, stained with saliva, hanging loose on the small animal. On the carpet behind it, torn into bright, unrecognizable pieces, were the toys.

My baby's toys.

Those toys had not come from a store. I had borrowed them from friends with children, mended each piece, washed them, dried them in the sun. Each one had been handed to me with a smile and the words "for your baby." Dante had taken them and given them to Serena's dog.

I held my belly with one hand and left the estate.

Il Nido occupied the top floors of a building in the city. I walked in. The receptionist stood when he saw me, his voice quick. "Madam, the Don is—"

I walked past him like he was furniture. He followed, blocking my path. "You really should not go in there right now."

The door at the end of the hall was open, light spilling out. When I reached it, I saw Dante sitting in an armchair, legs stretched out, half-leaning against the armrest, a glass of barely touched wine beside him. Serena stood near an old upright piano in the center of the room, singing a song I did not recognize. Dante's gaze followed her voice. He did not notice me until she finished the last note and the room fell silent.

I stood in the doorway, my fingers gripping the frame. "You took the baby clothes I prepared and gave them to her dog."

He sat up slightly, pushing the glass aside. His voice still carried the ease of someone who had just been listening to music. "Those clothes were old. I will order new ones. If you do not want her to have them, I will get you better ones."

He even stood up. "You came all the way here for that?"

"Those clothes were not bought," I said. "I asked for them from friends. I mended them. I washed them—"

But he had already stopped listening. I could see it in the way his eyes flicked past me, toward the door, toward where Serena was waiting.

"Then you can get new ones," he cut me off. "You are the Rossetti wife. Our child should not wear hand-me-downs."

Our child. The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. He said “our child,” but he had already given her things away to another woman’s dog. He said “our child,” but he hadn’t asked once what she needed. He hadn’t asked how I was.

“I will have Milan send over a new batch tomorrow,” he continued, already turning away. “They will be better than what you had.”

"Better than what I had?" I repeated. "You do not even know what I had. You never looked at them. You just took them."

He looked at me like I was being difficult for the sake of being difficult. "They were clothes, Yvette. Just clothes. I am offering you better ones. What is the problem?"

He stood there, waiting for me to nod, to accept. He really thought it was a fair exchange. Old clothes for new, old toys for new, the account settled. I should have been satisfied.

I had always believed that when it came to the baby, at least Dante cared. When he knelt by the bed and spoke to my belly, his voice was real. The pressure of his fingers against my skin was real. He had probably believed he would be a good father.

But he could take everything meant for her and give it to another woman before she was even born. He never thought about what those clothes meant to me. He only thought they were old, and new ones would fix everything. His love was real, but it was too light, like something floating on the surface, gone with the slightest touch.

I understood, suddenly, that this would happen again and again. He would give me new things and keep giving the old things to someone else. My child would learn that what she had could be taken away at any moment.

Dante came toward me when I did not speak. He bent down, his eyes on my belly, his voice soft. "Baby, Daddy will buy you new things. The prettiest dresses, the softest cashmere. Okay?" He straightened, pinched my cheek, and returned to his familiar, easy tone. "Do not make that face. I will make it up to you. I promise."