Samuel remained glued to my side. My shadow, my protector, but even his harsh gaze couldn’t stop the pitying looks or the whispers, and people didn’t even know about my pregnancy yet. I could imagine how much worse the gossip would become then.
I’d been known as the Ice Princess, meant to become the Ice Queen at Danilo’s side.
Now I was the woman whom Remo had defiled. The men could hardly look at me. Somehow I had become all of their failures.
Samuel’s hand on my lower back twitched, and one look at his face told me he was close to losing control.
“Dance with me,” I pleaded.
Samuel nodded with a small, tight smile and wrapped me in his embrace then stiffened when my still flat stomach pressed up to him. His eyes darted down and anguish flashed across his expression before he could mask it. As if he could already see my pregnancy when it was still safely hidden. I tightened my hold on him briefly, and finally he met my gaze. We began to dance. All eyes were on us.
Samuel held my gaze because he was on the verge of losing control. One look at the others and he’d snap. I smiled up at him and he relaxed. I, too, felt the glances. Could practically hear the whispers. A few women my age who’d always resented me for my status looked almost … triumphant, happy to witness my fall from grace.
I lifted my chin higher, angry and then worried … because how would all these people treat my child?
After three dances, Dad took over and Samuel moved over to the side to watch.
“You are beautiful, dove,” he said quietly. His expression was controlled, calm. His public face. Mom, too, looked poised and elegant as she stood beside Sofia, Anna, and Valentina.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said then added, “I’m sorry I don’t have a present for you.”
I hadn’t left the house since my return, and to be honest, I’d completely forgotten to get a present. My mind had been occupied with too many others things.
“I got my present already,” he said, and for a moment I thought he meant my child but then I realized he meant my freedom. He didn’t mention my pregnancy.
Dante danced with me next.
I met his eyes, wondering what he thought of my pregnancy, wondering what kind of future lay ahead for my child, if it was a boy. Would he be allowed in the Outfit? Or would his father’s identity close every door before it could ever be opened? I didn’t dare ask my uncle. Not in public, not on my father’s birthday party.
After the dance, I headed back to Samuel, who was talking to one of his oldest friends. He gave me a nod, but he, too, had trouble meeting my eyes. Samuel noticed and his jaw flexed. He excused himself, touched my back, and led me away.
Samuel and I walked into the entrance hall. I had a feeling Samuel needed to be away from the festivities for a couple of minutes. A few younger Made Men I didn’t know had gathered there, and when we passed them, their words managed to reach us.
“I don’t understand why they don’t keep her hidden. It’s a fucking disgrace to have her walk around as if Falcone hasn’t defiled her.”
My shock had barely registered when Samuel attacked. He broke the first guy’s nose with a sickening crunch then shoved the second to the ground, pressing his knife against the man’s throat.
“Sam,” I said firmly, clutching his shoulder.
He leaned down, bringing his face close to the other man’s. “I should cut your throat for insulting my sister. Apologize.”
The man glanced at his friends. One was nursing his broken nose, the other obviously unsure if he should interfere, considering our Dad was their fathers’ boss.
“Apologize!” Samuel snarled.
“I’m sorry,” the guy blurted.
I tightened my hold on Sam’s shoulder. He jerked back, took my hand, and dragged me outside, not into the garden but into the driveway where we were alone. He released me, turning his back to me. He sucked in a deep breath. I pressed my palms up to his shoulder blades then rested my forehead against his back. “Don’t let their words get to you. I don’t care about them and neither should you.”
“How can you not care about them? You are a mafia princess. I should cut their tongues out for daring to whisper his name in one sentence with yours.”
His name.
Remo Falcone. The father of my unborn child.
And worse, the man who filled my nights not with nightmares but with longing.
The next morning, Dad, Samuel, and Dante wanted to talk to me.
When I walked into Dad’s office, I knew from their expressions that it wouldn’t be an easy conversation and definitely not one I’d like. Dad sat behind his desk, Sam perched on its edge, and Dante stood with his hands in his slacks beside the window. I made a beeline for the sofa and sank down. My brain felt sluggish from lack of sleep. I’d spent all night trying to come to terms with the fact that I was carrying a baby, Remo’s baby.