Chapter 7 - The Lion's Table
The weeks following the gala transformed the Ferrante estate into an impenetrable sanctuary.
Under Veto’s orders, the security perimeter was tripled. Willow was no longer allowed to walk in the gardens alone; Bruno was her constant shadow, sleeping across the foot of her four-poster bed every night and resting his head on her lap while she read in the conservatory.
To Willow’s surprise, Veto was not the cold tyrant she had read about in newspaper headlines. Every evening at seven o'clock sharp, he returned from his business offices in the Loop, shed his tailored jacket, and joined her for dinner.
He asked about her doctor visits. He asked what books she liked. He listened attentively as she spoke of her dream of one day opening a small bakery on the North Shore.
One evening, as heavy snow began to coat the limestone statues outside the library windows, Willow sat on the rug before the fireplace, sipping chamomile tea. Veto sat at his desk reviewing shipping manifests, but his eyes drifted toward her every few minutes.
Suddenly, Willow gave a sharp little gasp and pressed both hands to her lower abdomen.
Veto was out of his chair in an instant. He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside her on the rug, his face tight with concern.
“What is it?” he demanded, his hand hovering near her shoulder. “Is it pain? Should I call Ross?”
Willow looked up at him, a radiant, tearful smile illuminating her face. “No… no, Veto. Feel this.”
She reached out, took his large, scarred right hand, and placed it gently against the taut swell of her belly beneath her wool sweater.
Veto froze. Underneath his palm, there was a sudden, distinct kick—a tiny, rhythmic thump against his hand.
The ruthless mafia boss who had brought three rival families to their knees stared at her stomach in absolute, reverent shock. His throat moved as he swallowed, his dark eyes wide and uncharacteristically vulnerable.
“He kicked,” Veto whispered.
“He knows you’re here,” Willow said softly, her thumb brushing over the back of Veto’s wrist. “He always settles down when you come into the room.”
Veto remained kneeling there on the rug for a long time, his hand resting over the unborn child. The hardness that usually defined his jaw seemed to melt away in the firelight.
“When I was a boy,” Veto murmured, his voice thick with unshared memories, “this house was cold. My father believed that love was a weakness enemies could exploit. He never touched my mother without a scowl. He never held my hand.”
He looked up, meeting Willow’s soft brown eyes.
“I swore I would never allow a child to grow up in a cold house,” he said.
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Willow leaned forward on an impulse she couldn't explain and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against Veto’s temple. He didn't pull away. Instead, his arm came around her waist, pulling her gently against his chest, shielding her from the winter darkness howling outside the glass.
***
