Chapter 11

After the exhibition, Vincent didn’t stop.Every single day, something arrived at the villa—flowers, books, toys for my daughter. Sometimes he would stand on the other side of the iron fence, waiting until she noticed him. The moment she ran toward him, her laughter filling the air, he’d crouch down, mirroring her every gesture, his hands mimicking her games through the cold bars.I tried to ignore it, to remind myself of the years of indifference and betrayal, but the way my daughter’s face lit up whenever she saw him… it loosened something inside me I had fought so hard to keep sealed.When she wasn’t home, he no longer hid behind gifts or playfulness. He would knock on the gate, his voice low and uncharacteristically unsteady.“Valentina, I’m sorry.”I refused to let him in, but somehow he always found a way to speak. “I need you to know… I was wrong. I hurt you in ways I cannot take back. But I love you. I love you more than I ever admitted.”The words made me laugh bitterly. “Do

Chapter 12

I woke to the soft click of a monitor and the antiseptic hush of a hospital room. My throat was raw, lungs aching with every breath; smoke has a way of living inside you even after the flames are gone. A small, warm weight lay against my side—my daughter—her lashes clumped from tears, cheek pink where she’d slept against my gown.Vincent was there.Not at the door, not hovering like a stranger, but at my bedside with the kind of patience that can’t be faked. He had rolled the sleeves of a white shirt to his forearms. A cup of warm water waited on the table with a thin slice of lemon floating like a pale coin—no honey, because he remembered I don’t like sweetness in the morning. He adjusted the head of the bed in slow increments until the pull in my chest eased.“Easy,” he said, voice rough. “Small sips.”He didn’t rush me. He didn’t fill the silence with apologies. He just steadied the cup with one hand and, with the other, untangled my hair where smoke and panic had knotted it at

Chapter 13

Inside, everything was… seen. The living room was soft and spare, sunlight pooling on a wool rug that looked like the color of sea foam—the exact shade I once told him makes me feel calm. On the kitchen counter, a neat stack of my favorite sketchbooks and charcoal sticks; in the fridge, broths and fresh bread, fruit already washed, a jar of olives from the tiny Sicilian shop I used to walk to at dusk. No seafood. No garlic.My daughter’s room undid me. Low bookshelves so she could reach on her own. A rug with painted constellations, a star-shaped nightlight that threw a galaxy across the ceiling, bedding in pale pinks and peaches without a single scratch of red. On the dresser, a white plush rabbit—the twin of the one she’d clutched in the hospital.On the dining table, a single note in Vincent’s careful, unfamiliar handwriting:I won’t stay here. Call if you need anything. If you don’t—don’t. I’ll wait where you want me to wait.He didn’t ask to come in. He kissed our daughter’s f

Chapter 14

Half a year slipped by in a strange rhythm—Vincent and I orbiting each other like two planets, never quite colliding, never quite letting go. He never pushed, never demanded. Instead, he simply stayed—showing up at the right moments, learning my silences, learning my daughter’s laughter.By December, our fragile arrangement had become something more. That Christmas, the first snowfall of the season frosted the city. I found myself cooking a small dinner, setting three places at the table. When Vincent arrived at the door with a tree under one arm and a crooked smile on his face, I didn’t send him away.“Stay,” I said, almost surprising myself.The way his eyes lit—it was as if I had handed him the whole world. He hung ornaments with my daughter, letting her perch on his shoulders to crown the tree with a paper star. Her laughter filled the apartment, and when she called him Daddy without hesitation, she glanced at me, waiting for correction. I only smiled.He stayed the night. Not i

Chapter 15

Pregnancy brought its own rhythm—morning sickness, cravings at impossible hours, and Vincent’s endless determination to be present for every part of it. He never complained. If I wanted pasta at dawn, he learned to make it. If I woke in the night, restless and heavy, he rubbed circles on my back until I drifted back to sleep.Our daughter delighted in the news, pressing her small hands to my stomach as if she could already feel her sibling’s heartbeat. “Baby,” she would whisper, then turn to Vincent with serious eyes. “Daddy, take care of Mama.”And he did. Every day.There were moments I tested him—half unconsciously—waiting to see if he would grow tired, if the man I once knew would reappear with his distance and coldness. But instead, he surprised me. He painted the nursery walls himself, pale blue and warm cream, humming off-key while our daughter tried to “help” with her little brush. He read books about pregnancy symptoms, argued with doctors until I had the best care, and carrie

All Chapters of The Don’s Secret Child: Chapter 11 - Chapter 15

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15