The sun had long since set, casting shadows across the grand Venetti estate. In the kitchen, Ella stood by the stove, stirring a rich tomato sauce, the scent of fresh basil filling the air.
Marco leaned against the counter, his arms crossed tightly, watching her. His mind was elsewhere. The ambush.
The way Matteo clung to Ella. And most of all—the way his son had called her Mommy.
“I’m going to bathe Matteo tonight,” Marco said suddenly.
Ella’s hand stilled over the pot, but her face remained calm.
“Oh?” she said, turning slightly to look at him.
“I want to know why he called you that,” Marco muttered, his jaw tightening. “Carmen is his mother. Not you.”
Ella tilted her head, her eyes soft, unreadable.
“Of course,” she murmured, turning back to the sauce.
“I’ll make dinner,” she added smoothly. “You focus on Matteo.”
Marco narrowed his eyes, watching her carefully. Something about her response felt too easy. Too rehearsed. But he pushed it aside.
He would find out the truth himself.
After dinner, Marco took Matteo upstairs to get him ready for bed.
The little boy splashed happily in the warm bath, giggling as he played with his rubber toys.
Marco sat on the edge of the tub, his elbows resting on his knees, watching his son.
This was supposed to be normal.
Bath time. Routine. But now? Everything felt wrong. Marco took a deep breath. “Matteo,” he said carefully. Matteo looked up, his big brown eyes filled with innocence.
“Yeah, Daddy?”
Marco hesitated for a second, then asked—
“Why did you call Ella Mommy today?”
Matteo blinked, tilting his head. “Because she is,” he said simply, shrugging. Marco’s chest tightened. “No, Matteo,” he said firmly. “Carmen is your mommy.”
Matteo frowned slightly, thinking. Then, he said something that made Marco’s blood run cold.
“Nanny said she’s my real mommy.”
The words hit Marco like a punch to the gut. His eyes darkened, his jaw locking. “What?” he asked, his voice dropping dangerously low.
Matteo shrugged, playing with his toy boat, seemingly unbothered.
“She said she’s my real mommy,” he repeated.
Marco’s hands curled into fists.
Ella told him that? Why? What was she trying to do? His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to stay calm.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered.
Matteo shrugged again, completely unaware of the storm building inside his father.
“Maybe,” he mumbled, then quickly changed the subject.
“Can I play with the duckies?”
Marco exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice tighter than before. “Of course, buddy.”