Chapter 1

Lucia's POV

I sat there in the paper gown, hands shaking a little while I waited for Dr. Castellano to come back with the test results.

Please let it be true. Please.

The door opened, and Dr. Castellano walked in with that warm smile. "Ms. Ferraro, congratulations. You're about four months along, and the baby is perfectly healthy."

My eyes filled up so fast. Four months. I put my hand on my stomach, and suddenly it all made sense, the little curve I'd been blaming on eating too much bread at the shop.

"Thank you," I whispered, "Thank you so much."

Dr. Castellano looked at my paperwork, his eyebrows going up a little. "I noticed you're registered under your maiden name. Ferraro, not... well, I assume there's a reason?"

"Yes, doctor." I looked him in the eye. "Family reasons. I need you to keep this confidential, please."

He nodded. In our neighborhood, everyone knew some things were better left alone.

I practically floated back to the shop, my fingers going to my belly every five seconds. A baby. Marco's baby. Our baby.

I stood in front of the mirror, turned sideways, and looked at myself. There it was—not bloating from too much pasta, but an actual tiny bump.

"Marco's going to completely freak out," I said to my reflection, laughing even though I was crying again. "He's going to absolutely lose his mind."

Happy crying this time. God, when was the last time I cried because I was happy?

I knew exactly what to do. I pulled open the old recipe box my nonna left me and found the card, yellowed and faded but still readable. Biscotti al Limone, Elena Moretti.

Marco's mother's lemon cookies.

I'm baking these cookies for Marco, then I'm gonna bring them over and tell him I'm pregnant! I wanna surprise him, I've never been to where he works before.

While the cookies baked and turned golden, I found a plain brown paper bag and arranged them inside carefully. On the outside, I wrote in Italian: "Per il mio amore." Under that, I drew a tiny simple baby.

Maybe he'll figure it out before I even have to say anything.

I changed into my favorite dress, a floral print I got on sale at Target a few months ago. I left Marco's diamond necklace in its box on purpose. Too flashy. Too dangerous. Instead, I put on the simple gold chain with the tiny Virgin Mary pendant, the one Marco gave me on our wedding day in that small chapel with only Father Giuseppe watching.

I traced the outline of the pendant. On the back, so small you'd miss it, were our initials. M.M. & L.F.

"Lucia!" My neighbor Rosa's voice came from outside. "You making something for that mystery man again?"

I stuck my head out the door and smiled. Rosa Martinez had lived next door for thirty years and made it her life's work to know everyone's business.

"Maybe," I said, holding up the bag.

"Three years, Lucia. Three years you've been with this man, and none of us have met him." Rosa shook her head, but she was smiling too. "When are you going to bring him around?"

"Soon, Rosa. I promise. Really soon."

Sooner than you think. Once Marco knows about the baby, everything has to change. We can't keep hiding anymore.

My Honda Civic wasn't much, but it was mine. I paid for it myself with money I saved from the bakery. I drove through Chicago, leaving Little Italy and heading to the South Side, and I couldn't stop touching my stomach.

The radio played an old Dean Martin song. I hummed along and practiced what I was going to say.

"Marco, I'm pregnant."

No, too harsh.

"Guess what, amore mio?"

Too casual.

"So, you know how you said you wanted kids?"

I actually laughed at myself. Just give him the cookies first. Let him taste them. Then tell him his mother's recipe is going to get passed down to his son. Or daughter. Oh my God, we don't even know yet.

The happiness kept building inside me until I thought I might burst from it.

I drove past the flower shop on Ashland Avenue, the place where Marco's parents died when their car blew up thirteen years ago. I never passed it without thinking about them. Today I pulled over.

The owner knew me by now. I'd been coming here for three years, always getting white roses.

"The usual, Lucia?"

"Yes, please. A dozen."

I put them down carefully at the memorial plaque on the corner. I touched Elena and Domenico Moretti's names with my fingers.

"I need to tell you something," I whispered, crouching down. "You're going to be grandparents. I'm giving you a grandson. Or a granddaughter. And no matter what, they're going to know your names. They're going to know everything about you. I promise."

Marco needs this so badly. He needs to know his family doesn't end with him. That the Moretti name keeps going.

The "Moretti Import Wine Company" looked exactly like what the sign said, a regular three-story building with a faded sign and barred windows. The only weird thing was the two guys in expensive black suits standing by the door.

I parked across the street, breathed deep, and grabbed the paper bag.

This is it. After today, everything is different.

The guard opened the door for me. I'd never actually been inside before. Marco always came to me, sneaking over to my apartment above the bakery, spending stolen nights in my bed, whispering promises in Italian.

This is his world. The one he worked so hard to keep me away from.

The lobby was weirdly normal. Old leather couches. An empty receptionist desk. A few guys in the corner talking quietly, cigarette smoke going up to the ceiling.

One of them stared at me like I didn't belong there. He said something into a radio that I couldn't hear.

They don't know who I am. Marco really did keep his promise. Nobody here knows about us.

I sat down on one of the couches with the paper bag warm in my lap. My heart was pounding so hard. Just a little longer. Then I'll see him. Then I'll tell him and everything will finally be—

High heels clicked on the marble floor.

I looked up.

A woman came down the stairs, tall, gorgeous, wearing a black dress. Her dark hair was pulled back tight. Her red lips curved into something that definitely wasn't a smile.

She looked like she ran the place.

Every part of me knew something was very wrong.

"Who are you?" Her voice was ice. "What are you doing here?"