Chapter 7 - The Nursery in the Woods
At the end of the long, carpeted hallway on the second floor, a white door stood slightly ajar.
Lorenzo reached it. He stopped.
For all his courage—for all the men he had faced, the shootouts he had survived, the empire he had ruled—his hand shook so violently he could barely push the door open.
He slowly pushed it inward.
The room was painted a soft, muted lavender. A mobile of golden stars and crescents turned gently in the warm draft of an electric heater. And in the center of the room sat a white wooden crib.
The room smelled of baby powder, lavender, and milk.
Lorenzo stepped inside, his heavy boots making no sound on the plush rug. He lowered his weapon, letting the tactical sling hang loose around his shoulder. He took off his leather gloves, his bare hands trembling.
He reached the crib and looked down.
There, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, was a baby girl. She was asleep, her chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic breaths. A mop of dark, wavy hair—the exact shade and texture of Elena’s—lay ruffled against her forehead. Her cheeks were round and pink, her tiny lips parted in slumber.
Lorenzo’s knees buckled.
He caught himself against the railing of the crib, his breath catching in his throat in a series of ragged, suffocating sobs. The tears he had held back for eight months—the tears he had refused to shed at the funeral, refused to shed before his family, refused to shed in the dark of his lonely mansion—finally broke through like an overwhelming dam.
He leaned over the railing, pressing his forehead gently against the soft mattress beside the baby.
"My sweet girl," he wept, his voice breaking into pieces. "My little girl... you’re here. Daddy’s here."
As if hearing his voice, the baby stirred. She stretched her tiny arms, yawning, and slowly opened her eyes.
Lorenzo froze.
Her eyes were not dark like his. They were a brilliant, shimmering hazel-amber—the exact, unmistakable candlelight eyes of Elena.
Around the baby’s neck, fastened with a safe velvet ribbon, hung a small, polished silver pendant. Lorenzo touched it with a trembling finger. It was the antique medallion he had given Elena on the night he proposed in Florence. Victor had kept it with the child as proof of her identity.
"Giulia," Lorenzo whispered the name they had chosen together before the world ended. "Giulia."
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The baby looked up at the scarred, weeping giant standing over her crib, and instead of crying, she let out a soft, bubbling coo, reaching her tiny fingers up toward his face. When her warm, soft hand brushed against Lorenzo’s scarred cheek, the Don closed his eyes, leaning into the touch as if it were the only thing keeping him alive on this earth.
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