Chapter 7 - The Shadows Stir
Though the Sinclairs had fallen, the underworld they had engaged did not disappear overnight.
Three weeks had passed since the raid on the Sinclair estate.
Abigail was now entering her thirty-first week of pregnancy. Under the care of Dr. Vance and the Romano family’s private chef, her color had returned, her cheeks were full and radiant, and the dark circles of exhaustion that had haunted her eyes for months had completely vanished.
She had moved into the eastern wing of the penthouse, which Matteo had insisted on completely redecorating for her and the baby.
Every afternoon, Isabella would join Abigail in the newly constructed nursery—a breathtaking room painted in soft sage green and cream, featuring an antique white crib carved from Italian beechwood, silk draperies, and shelves filled with classic children’s literature.
“Look at this,” Isabella said, holding up a tiny pair of handcrafted pink leather booties. “Matteo ordered these from Florence. He won't admit it, of course. He pretended Luca picked them out, but I saw the invoice on his desk.”
Abigail laughed, a genuine, musical sound that filled the room. “He’s... he’s done too much, Isabella. I don't know how to repay him.”
“You don't repay Matteo,” Isabella said gently, placing the booties on the changing table. “Matteo doesn't do things for transactions, Abigail. People think he’s cold, that he only cares about power and money. But when Matteo loves someone—when he decides someone is under his protection—he would tear the world apart with his bare hands to keep them safe.”
Isabella paused, giving Abigail a knowing, affectionate look. “And the way he looks at you... I haven't seen that look in my brother’s eyes in ten years.”
Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. Her cheeks flushed a deep, warm crimson.
She had noticed it, too.
The way Matteo’s stern expression softened whenever she entered a room. The way his deep voice dropped to a gentle, reverent cadence whenever he asked about the baby. The way his hand lingered whenever he helped her stand from a chair, his touch respectful yet filled with an undeniable, simmering heat.
Before Abigail could reply, the door to the nursery opened, and Matteo stepped inside.
He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, his tie loosened, looking every inch the sovereign of an empire. But the moment his eyes landed on Abigail, sitting in the velvet rocking chair with the afternoon light illuminating her face, his gaze turned intensely soft.
“Isabella,” Matteo said, nodding toward his sister. “The legal foundation papers for Abigail’s new charitable trust are ready for review.”
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Isabella smiled knowingly, slipping past her brother and winking at Abigail as she closed the door.
Matteo walked into the nursery, his steps quiet against the plush wool rug. He stood beside the rocking chair, looking down at Abigail with an expression that made her breath catch in her throat.
“How is the little one today?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.
“Very active,” Abigail smiled, placing her hand over her side. “She seems to enjoy the Italian opera you were playing in the study earlier.”
A rare, breathtaking smile touched the corners of Matteo’s lips. Slowly, hesitantly, he held out his hand. “May I?”
Abigail looked up into his dark, piercing eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not with fear, but with a sudden, intoxicating warmth.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Matteo knelt beside her chair—just as he had in the ballroom weeks ago, but this time with pure reverence. He placed his large, warm palm gently against the curve of Abigail’s belly.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, a sudden, firm kick pressed directly against Matteo’s palm.
Matteo froze. His eyes widened, a look of sheer, unadulterated wonder washing over his hardened features. He looked from Abigail’s belly up to her face, his lips parting slightly.
“She kicked,” Matteo breathed, his voice laced with awe. “Right against my hand.”
“She likes you, Matteo,” Abigail whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Matteo didn't pull his hand away. He stayed kneeling beside her, his palm resting warm and steady against her child, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that laid his entire soul bare.
“Abigail,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “When I found you in that ballroom... I thought I was simply repaying an impossible debt. I thought I was balancing a ledger for my family.”
He lifted his other hand, his knuckles gently tracing the soft line of her jaw, lingering where Vanessa’s bruise had once been.
“I was wrong,” Matteo murmured. “You didn't just save Isabella eight years ago. You saved me. Because until the moment I saw you standing in that room, fighting to protect your baby with everything you had... I didn't know what it felt like to want to protect something more than my own life.”
Abigail’s breath hitched. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing against Matteo’s thumb.
“Matteo...” she whispered.
Before he could speak further, the radio on his hip crackled to life.
Luca’s urgent voice broke the spell: *“Boss. We have a priority alert from our intelligence team at the Metropolitan Detention Center.”*
Matteo’s jaw tightened. The tenderness in his face hardened back into granite within a fraction of a second. He stood up smoothly, keying his radio. “Report.”
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*“Richard Sinclair was denied bail this afternoon,”* Luca stated grimly. *“Ten minutes later, his former private security cell in Eastern Europe activated a contingency contract. Two millions dollars was moved to a mercenary broker in Queens. Boss... they aren't targeting your businesses. They’re targeting the hospital wing where Abigail is registered to deliver.”*
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