My Mafia Husband Left Me Nine Months Pregnant to Fly to Paris With His First Love

Vincent met his daughter twenty-two days after she was born.

I almost canceled three times.

The meeting was arranged at Rachel's office because I still wasn't ready to let Vincent into my home.

Part of me knew that was irrational.

This was a man whose organization could find almost anyone in Chicago within hours.

If Vincent truly wanted my address, he would have it.

The fact that he had respected my boundary mattered.

I hated that it mattered.

At ten minutes before noon, Rachel opened the conference room door.

"He's here."

I looked down at Lily.

She wore a pale yellow onesie.

Her dark hair stood up slightly in the back.

"Does he have security?"

"Matteo's downstairs."

"Is Vincent alone?"

"Yes."

I inhaled slowly.

"Okay."

Rachel touched my shoulder.

"You control the meeting."

I nodded.

When Vincent entered, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

I had not seen him since the morning he left for Paris.

Twenty-two days.

He looked thinner.

That surprised me.

Vincent never looked anything except perfectly composed.

Today his suit fit slightly looser.

Dark circles marked the skin beneath his eyes.

Then he saw Lily.

His entire face changed.

He stopped just inside the room.

Lily slept against my chest.

Vincent stared at her.

Then at me.

"Emily."

My name sounded different coming from him.

"Vincent."

Several seconds passed.

He seemed unsure what to do with his hands.

That almost frightened me more than anger would have.

The most powerful man I had ever met looked nervous.

Rachel pulled out a chair.

"You can sit."

Vincent sat.

His eyes never left Lily.

"Can I see her?"

"You're looking at her."

His mouth tightened.

"I meant closer."

I hesitated.

Then stood.

Vincent also stood automatically.

I moved closer.

For perhaps a full minute, neither of us spoke.

Lily stretched.

Her tiny fist opened.

Vincent stared at her fingers.

"She's small."

I almost laughed.

"She's a newborn."

"I know."

"You sound surprised."

"I've never held one."

That caught me off guard.

"Not even cousins?"

"No."

Lily made a soft noise.

Vincent's eyes widened slightly.

I had seen men beg in front of my husband.

I had watched CEOs become pale when Vincent entered meetings.

Yet one sleepy sound from a seven-pound baby seemed to frighten him more than any enemy.

"Would you like to hold her?"

His eyes snapped toward mine.

"Yes."

I adjusted Lily's blanket.

"Sit."

He obeyed immediately.

I almost smiled.

"Support her head."

"I know that."

"You just told me you've never held a baby."

"I watched three videos last night."

I stared at him.

"You watched videos?"

"Nine."

Something inside my chest hurt.

I carefully placed Lily in his arms.

Vincent stopped breathing.

His large hands looked absurd around her tiny body.

He stared down.

Lily continued sleeping.

His throat moved.

"Hello."

His voice was barely audible.

Lily's eyelids fluttered.

"I'm Vincent."

I blinked.

"You could try Dad."

He looked at me.

Pain crossed his face.

"I haven't earned that."

I didn't know what to say.

Lily's hand moved against his shirt.

Vincent offered one finger.

She wrapped her tiny fingers around it.

He froze.

Then tears filled his eyes.

Vincent Moretti did not cry.

At least, I had never seen it.

Not at funerals.

Not after being shot.

Not when his mother was hospitalized.

Now one tear moved silently down his cheek.

He did not wipe it away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

I knew he wasn't speaking to me.

Lily slept.

Vincent lowered his forehead toward her small hand.

"I'm so sorry."

I turned away.

Because if I watched any longer, I might forgive him before he deserved it.

The meeting lasted ninety minutes.

Vincent asked questions.

How much did Lily eat?

How often did she wake?

What formula?

Was she healthy?

Had the pediatrician found anything concerning?

He wrote everything down.

Actually wrote it down.

When Lily began crying, he panicked.

"What's wrong?"

"She's hungry."

"Can I feed her?"

I hesitated.

Then gave him the bottle.

Vincent held it incorrectly.

I corrected his angle.

Lily started drinking.

The expression on Vincent's face became almost peaceful.

For twenty minutes, nothing existed except the baby in his arms.

Then Lily spit up on his six-thousand-dollar suit.

I stared.

Vincent looked down.

A white stain spread across black fabric.

Rachel covered her mouth.

I waited for irritation.

Instead, Vincent laughed.

It was quiet at first.

Then real.

I had forgotten the sound.

"You think this is funny?" I asked.

He looked at Lily.

"Apparently."

Rachel handed him a cloth.

"Welcome to parenthood, Mr. Moretti."

He cleaned his jacket badly.

I took the cloth.

"You're making it worse."

Our fingers touched.

The room changed.

I pulled away first.

Vincent noticed.

Of course he did.

When the meeting ended, he handed Lily back reluctantly.

"When can I see her again?"

"Saturday."

"That's four days."

"Yes."

"Could it be tomorrow?"

"No."

His jaw tightened.

But he nodded.

"Saturday."

That mattered too.

Every small respectful thing he did annoyed me because it was evidence he could have behaved differently all along.

Before leaving, Vincent looked at me.

"I ended contact with Sophia."

I stiffened.

"That's your decision."

"She arranged the photographs."

I had suspected.

Still, hearing confirmation felt like ice.

"Why?"

"She wanted you to think something happened between us."

"Did it?"

"No."

I looked directly at him.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing physical."

The answer was too carefully phrased.

My chest tightened.

"What does that mean?"

Vincent did not hide.

"I was emotionally dishonest."

"Meaning?"

"I allowed a relationship with her that made you feel secondary."

I laughed softly.

"Made me feel?"

His expression changed.

"That placed you second."

"Better."

"I told myself Sophia was family. An old friend. Someone I owed loyalty."

"And me?"

"You were my wife."

"That's not an answer."

"No."

He looked exhausted.

"I treated marriage like a permanent contract. Something secure enough to neglect."

My eyes burned.

"Why?"

"Because I was arrogant."

The honesty disarmed me.

"I believed you'd always be there."

"Until I wasn't."

"Yes."

Silence stretched between us.

Then Vincent said:

"I don't expect you to forgive me."

"Good."

"But I need you to know I never slept with Sophia."

"I believe you."

His face changed slightly.

"That doesn't help as much as I thought it would," I added.

"I know."

"Because sex wasn't the only betrayal."

"I know."

"You left."

"I know."

"I was terrified."

His eyes closed briefly.

"I know."

"No, you don't."

My voice shook.

"You weren't there when the contractions started. You weren't there when I thought something was wrong because Lily's heartbeat dropped. You weren't there when they rushed extra nurses into the room."

Vincent became pale.

"What?"

I had never told him.

"Her heart rate dropped for almost two minutes."

He stared at me.

"Nobody told me."

"I thought she was going to die."

My voice broke.

"I thought I was going to lose our daughter while you were in Paris holding Sophia's hand."

Vincent looked physically ill.

"The doctor said—"

"She's fine."

I wiped tears from my face.

"But I didn't know that then."

He took one step toward me.

Then stopped himself.

That restraint mattered most.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"If I could undo it—"

"You can't."

"I know."

"Then don't promise me the past."

He looked at me.

"What can I promise?"

"Nothing."

I adjusted Lily in my arms.

"Do things."

Vincent nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Don't tell me you're changing."

"Okay."

"Change."

"I will."

I almost laughed.

"You just broke the rule."

For the first time, something close to embarrassment crossed his face.

"Right."

I left.

Saturday came.

Then Tuesday.

Then Saturday again.

Vincent never missed a visit.

Not once.

He arrived early.

He learned how to change diapers.

Badly at first.

The first time Lily screamed during a diaper change, Vincent looked at me as though expecting tactical instructions.

"She's not a bomb," I said.

"Bombs are easier."

Eventually, he learned.

He brought no extravagant gifts.

That surprised me most.

Instead, he arrived one afternoon carrying three board books.

"They said babies like contrast."

"Who said?"

"The internet."

I stared at him.

Vincent Moretti was taking parenting advice from internet articles.

It was absurd.

And dangerous to my heart.

One evening, Lily developed a fever.

Only 100.6.

Nothing serious.

The pediatrician told me to monitor her.

Somehow Vincent heard.

Probably Isabella.

He called immediately.

"Should she go to the hospital?"

"No."

"I'll send Dr. Palmer."

"No."

"He can be there in fifteen minutes."

"Vincent."

Silence.

Then:

"Sorry."

"I've spoken to her pediatrician."

"Okay."

He sounded miserable.

Two hours later, my doorbell rang.

I opened it cautiously.

Vincent stood outside.

Alone.

He held nothing.

"What are you doing here?"

"You said not to send a doctor."

"I also didn't invite you."

"I know."

He looked toward the house.

"Can I sit outside?"

"What?"

"I don't need to come in."

I stared.

"It's thirty-eight degrees."

"I have a coat."

"You want to sit on my porch?"

"If Lily gets worse, I want to be close."

I should have sent him away.

Instead, I opened the door wider.

"Come inside."

His eyes met mine.

"Are you sure?"

"No."

That almost made him smile.

He stepped inside my grandmother's house for the first time.

Vincent looked enormous in the small entryway.

Nothing in the house matched his world.

The furniture was old.

The floor creaked.

The kitchen light flickered sometimes.

I expected him to look uncomfortable.

Instead, he studied the framed photographs along the hallway.

My parents.

My grandmother.

Me at college graduation.

A photograph of me at age eight missing both front teeth.

Vincent stopped.

"What?"

I followed his gaze.

"Oh, God."

"You were cute."

"I looked like a criminal."

"You married one."

I almost laughed.

Almost.

Lily slept in her crib.

Vincent sat beside it for three hours.

He did not take calls.

Did not answer messages.

Did not check business reports.

At midnight, her temperature returned to normal.

I found Vincent asleep in the old armchair beside her crib, his head tilted awkwardly against the wall.

A man worth hundreds of millions sleeping beneath a blanket patterned with pink flowers because I had thrown it over him an hour earlier.

I stood in the doorway too long.

He woke.

"What time is it?"

"After midnight."

"Her temperature?"

"Normal."

Relief crossed his face.

He stood.

"I'll leave."

"You can stay in the guest room."

He looked surprised.

"For Lily," I said quickly.

"Of course."

Something in his eyes told me he understood the lie.

Not that I wanted him there.

But that I no longer entirely wanted him gone.

That frightened me.

The following morning, I woke to the smell of smoke.

I rushed downstairs.

Vincent stood in the kitchen staring at a blackened frying pan.

"What happened?"

"I attempted breakfast."

"Attempted?"

"I can negotiate a port acquisition in three languages."

"But eggs defeated you?"

"Apparently."

For the first time since he returned from Paris, I laughed without trying to stop myself.

Vincent looked at me.

Not triumphantly.

Not hopefully.

Just quietly.

That made my laughter disappear.

"I should go," he said.

"Probably."

He cleaned the kitchen before leaving.

Later that afternoon, Rachel visited.

She looked around.

"Why does it smell like burned butter?"

"Vincent made breakfast."

Her eyes widened.

"He was here?"

"Lily had a fever."

"And?"

"He stayed."

"And?"

"Nothing happened."

Rachel watched me carefully.

"Do you want something to happen?"

"No."

Too fast.

Rachel raised one eyebrow.

I sighed.

"I don't know."

She sat.

"Then don't decide yet."

"The divorce papers are still unsigned."

"I know."

"Should I force the filing?"

"Do you want to?"

I looked toward the nursery.

"No."

That answer frightened me more than yes would have.

Because leaving Vincent had been simple when I believed he did not care.

Now he was making me face a harder question.

What if he did care?

What if he had always loved me, but had been too damaged, arrogant, and emotionally cowardly to understand that love without presence could still destroy the person receiving it?

And if he truly changed—

Would I be strong enough to forgive?

Or would forgiving him only teach him that he could hurt me and eventually be welcomed home?

That night, Vincent received a phone call that changed the direction of everything again.

Matteo's voice was sharp.

"We have a problem."

"What?"

"Sophia landed in Chicago an hour ago."

Vincent's expression hardened.

"Send her back."

"That's not the problem."

"What is?"