Chapter 7 Chapter 7 (Lilianna’s POV)

Morning should have felt like a blessing.

A new day. A clean start. A chance to breathe after the nightmare we’d barely escaped.

But as sunlight streamed through Matteo’s kitchen windows and spilled across the polished floors, the world didn’t look softer. Or safer. Or healed.

It looked… suspended. Fragile. Like a single wrong move could shatter everything.

I stood in the doorway, my hands trembling against the frame, watching my son—my entire world—cling to the man I had spent three years running from.

Matteo stood frozen, muscles tight beneath his shirt, eyes locked onto Callum like he couldn’t look away. Something raw flickered in his face—pain, shock, fear, hope. A storm that made my chest twist.

And Callum… he just held onto Matteo’s leg like he’d found something he’d been searching for.

Something he’d never had.

Something I’d taken from him.

“Callum,” I whispered, because it was all I could manage.

He turned sleepily, but he didn’t let go of Matteo. “Momma, I woke up and you weren’t there.”

My breath hitched. I crossed the kitchen quickly, kneeling in front of him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I murmured, brushing his curls back. “I didn’t go far.”

He nodded, but his gaze drifted right back to Matteo, small fingers gripping him tighter.

Matteo’s jaw flexed, his eyes meeting mine with something dangerously close to accusation.

As if he was silently asking:

How could you think I wouldn’t want him?

And God help me—it tore something open inside.

I placed a gentle hand around Callum’s wrist. “Come here, baby.”

He hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough for pain to flash across Matteo’s face—quick, sharp, impossible to hide.

But Callum finally reached for me, letting me pull him into my arms. He smelled like sleep and warmth and innocence—everything the world outside this house wanted to destroy.

“You hungry?” I asked softly.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes.

“Let’s make breakfast then,” I whispered.

But just as I moved to stand, Matteo stepped forward.

“I’ll help.”

It wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t even a statement.

It was a vow.

I swallowed and nodded once, turning toward the counter. Matteo moved beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him—solid, immovable, dangerous. A reminder of the life I’d left behind.

A reminder of the man I’d left behind.

I pulled a pan from the cabinet, trying to steady my breathing as Callum climbed onto one of the barstools, swinging his legs.

He watched us with wide eyes, his small hands gripping the counter like he was afraid we’d disappear if he blinked.

Matteo paused beside me, looking down at the bowl I placed on the counter. “He likes eggs?”

“Scrambled,” I said quietly. “Soft. He won’t eat them if they’re too firm.”

Matteo nodded slowly, a strange expression passing over his face.

Then he reached for the eggs.

And began cooking.

Just like that.

As though this—standing in a kitchen, cooking breakfast with a boy who might be his son—was the most natural thing in the world.

But his movements betrayed him.

His hands trembled.

His jaw clenched.

His breath came in shallow pulls.

He wasn’t okay.

Neither was I.

Callum watched him with fascination. “Are you a chef?” he asked.

Matteo huffed out a quiet laugh. “Not even close.”

“You’re good at it,” Callum said. “Momma burns stuff sometimes.”

My face heated. “Cal—”

“It’s true!” he insisted.

Matteo’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but he didn’t turn.

“You want cheese in your eggs?” he asked.

Callum nodded eagerly.

I watched them—watched Matteo move carefully through his own kitchen like every motion was deliberate. Like he wanted everything to be perfect.

Like he didn’t know how to be a father, but he damn sure wanted to try.

My eyes stung.

I turned away before the tears could fall.

Breakfast passed quietly—too quietly. Callum sat at the island, feet kicking, happily eating while Matteo stood nearby like a silent guardian, watching doors, windows, shadows.

Watching everything but me.

After dishes were rinsed and put away, Callum hopped down from his stool and wandered to the living room with one of his toy cars from my bag.

Once he was out of earshot, Matteo finally spoke.

“We need to talk.”

His voice was low. Controlled.

Dangerous in a different way.

I nodded, bracing myself.

He stepped closer, hands gripping the counter behind me, trapping me between him and the marble edge in a way that sent a bolt of unwelcome heat through me.

“Is he mine?” Matteo asked, voice barely above a whisper.

There it was.

The question I’d been dreading.

The truth I’d been running from.

The moment that would change everything.

I felt tears prick at my lashes.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Matteo didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

His entire body went still, like the world had slammed to a halt around him.

“How long?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“He’ll be four in October.”

He exhaled a shaky breath—almost a sob. His hand lifted, hesitated, then dropped again.

“Christ, Lilianna…” he rasped. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“You stole three years from me.”

“I was trying to protect him.”

“From me?”

“No,” I whispered. “From all of this.”

I motioned around the house. The armed guards. The reinforced doors. The reality of our world.

“You know what this life does to people,” I murmured. “What it did to us.”

His jaw ticked, pain and fury warring in his eyes.

“You didn’t even give me a chance,” he growled.

“I was scared.”

He stepped closer, his breath brushing my cheek. “Of me?”

“Of losing him,” I whispered.

Something in his face cracked—anger melting into something far more devastating.

“Lilianna…” he murmured, voice rough. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to him. To either of you.”

I believed him. I always had.

That hadn’t made it any less dangerous.

Before either of us could say another word, loud pounding rattled the front door.

Matteo stiffened instantly—eyes flashing predator-dark. He shoved me behind him, every muscle coiled with lethal intent.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered. “No matter what.”

My pulse thundered.

Another knock. Heavy. Impatient.

Matteo signaled one of his men through the earpiece I hadn’t even noticed he was wearing.

A beat later, a voice crackled back: “It’s Enzo.”

Matteo exhaled—relief mixed with agitation. “Open it.”

A moment later, the door unlocked, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside. Dark-haired, stern-faced. One of Matteo’s most loyal lieutenants.

“Boss,” Enzo said tightly. “We’ve got a situation.”

Matteo moved to the foyer, posture shifting into razor-sharp leadership.

“What is it?”

“The Russians hit one of our supply depots in Queens. Two men dead. One missing.”

My stomach dropped.

Callum clutched his toy car tighter, sensing the tension.

Matteo’s voice turned cold. “What else?”

“They were looking for her.”

Me.

Ice shot down my spine.

“Someone talked,” Enzo said grimly. “Someone knows she’s alive—and here.”

Matteo’s jaw clenched. “Then we flush out the rat.”

“That’s not all,” Enzo added. “There’s chatter that the Russians have a new commander leading the charge. Someone vicious.”

Matteo crossed his arms. “Name?”

“Viktor Sokolov.”

Matteo froze, blood draining from his face.

I’d never heard him sound afraid.

Not once.

Not ever.

But the look in his eyes now—cold, haunted, murderous—made the hair rise on my arms.

“That son of a bitch,” Matteo whispered.

“Who is he?” I asked, dread twisting in my stomach.

Matteo turned toward me slowly.

“He’s the man who killed my mother.”

The room spun.

Oh God.

Callum whimpered and pressed into my side. I picked him up immediately, holding him close.

Matteo’s eyes softened when he looked at our son, but only for a heartbeat—before steel replaced it.

“They know you’re here,” he said. “They know you’re with me. And they won’t stop until they have you.”

Fear slammed into me.

“Why?” I whispered.

“Because you’re leverage,” Matteo said. His voice was calm—too calm. “And because you were there when they attacked the cathedral.”

My heart lurched painfully. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the Russians think you saw something,” Matteo said. “Something they don’t want getting out.”

My pulse quickened. “I didn’t—”

“You might have,” he cut in. “Even if you don’t realize it.”

I swallowed hard.

Callum’s tiny fingers clung to my shirt.

“What do we do?” I whispered.

Matteo stepped closer, placing a firm, grounding hand on my back.

“We prepare,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

His expression hardened, features carved from stone.

“For war.”