Chapter 3: Three Babies!
Ava's POV
The moment Luca strode through that massive oak door, Sophia practically launched herself at him.
"Luca! Luca! She's pregnant! Ava's carrying your child!"
Oh God, here we go again. The woman had already told me three times today. I swear she's more excited than I am about this whole deal.
Luca's eyes locked onto mine across the room. For a split second, something flickered in those cold gray eyes. Was that... relief? Concern? I couldn't tell. The guy was a damn fortress.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low and steady. "For doing this."
Damn it. Why does my stupid heart have to flutter like that?
It was just a job. A very lucrative business arrangement. Twenty million dollars. That's all this was.
But the way he looked at me...
"It's fine," I managed, pulling back a bit. "Just doing what I signed up for."
Within twenty-four hours, I had a personal nutritionist, a yoga instructor, and someone whose entire job was apparently to make sure I was "comfortable."
Frank, the family butler, showed up at my bedroom door with a notebook in hand. "Miss Ava, Chef Marco would like to know your dietary preferences."
"I... uh... I like pizza?"
Frank's face stayed perfectly neutral. "We'll have Chef Marco whip up a gourmet wood-fired pizza with organic veggies and hormone-free cheese."
These people are nuts.
But the real kicker came that night.
Luca appeared in our bedroom—his bedroom, technically—hauling a pillow and a blanket.
"What are you doing?" I asked, watching him head for the door.
"Doctor's orders," he said. "Sexual activity could harm the baby in the first trimester."
I blinked. "You're... leaving?"
"Right," I muttered. "How considerate of you."
He paused at the door. "If you need anything, I'm right next door. Just knock."
And just like that, he was gone.
I stared at the empty doorway, my emotions doing some weird flip-flop I didn't want to unpack. This is good, I told myself firmly. Professional. Transactional. Exactly what this is supposed to be.
So why did the bed suddenly feel way too big?
Twelve weeks later, I was lying on a cold exam table, gel smeared across my barely-there bump, while Luca gripped my hand like I might vanish into thin air.
"There's the heartbeat," the doctor said, pointing at the flickering light on the screen.
Something weird twisted in my chest. Like a door I didn't even know was there just cracked open.
"That's... that's really a baby?" I whispered.
Luca's thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Our baby."
Not 'our.' This is business. Business, business, business.
The doctor moved the wand around, frowning a little. Then more deliberately. Then her eyes went wide.
"Mr. Marchetti, Mrs. Marchetti... I need to double-check something."
My stomach dropped. "Is something wrong?"
"Wrong? No, no..." She leaned closer to the screen, her mouth falling open. "If I'm not mistaken... you're carrying triplets."
The room went dead silent.
Then my brain lit up like a Vegas slot machine.
Twenty million times THREE. Sixty million. SIXTY. MILLION. DOLLARS.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling "JACKPOT!"
Luca's face had gone pale. "Triplets? You sure?"
"See here? Three distinct heartbeats. Three separate sacs." The doctor was grinning now. "Congrats! This is pretty rare."
I wanted to dance. I wanted to sing. I wanted to run through the streets tossing cash in the air.
Instead, I patted Luca's arm like a normal person. "Don't worry, I'm tough as nails!"
For sixty million bucks, I'd carry quintuplets if I had to.
Luca didn't look convinced. In fact, he looked downright terrified.
When Sophia found out, I thought she might actually keel over from pure joy.
"Three! Three Marchetti heirs!" She was practically floating. "This is a blessing! A miracle!"
The next few months were... complicated.
At four months, my belly popped like I'd swallowed a basketball. At six months, I looked like I'd swallowed three.
Walking became a workout. Sleeping? Forget it. My back screamed bloody murder 24/7.
Luca started cutting out early from his "business meetings"—whatever shady stuff those involved. He'd sit with me, reading or tapping away on his laptop while I hunted for a comfy spot.
One night, around 2 a.m., I was crying into a pillow because my back hurt so bad I wanted to die.
A knock on the door.
"Ava?"
"Go away, Luca."
The door opened anyway. He crossed the room and, without a word, started massaging my lower back.
"Oh my God," I groaned. "Right there. Yes. Don't stop."
"Better?"
"If you stop, I'll kill you."
His low chuckle rumbled through me. "Noted."
We stayed like that for an hour. His hands working magic on my aching muscles, me trying not to think about how good it felt. How safe.
This is temporary, I reminded myself. After the babies come, you take your money and run. That's the plan. Stick to the plan.
"The family doc says we should schedule a C-section," I said. "These babies need to come out before they throw a full-on party in there."
"How soon?" Luca asked.
"Thirty-six weeks."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Not from discomfort this time, but because... what would they look like? Would they have Luca's dark hair? His sharp jawline?
Stop it. They're not yours to keep.
Today was the day—the scheduled C-section. Luca helped me into the car like I was a priceless vase, his touch gentle but firm.
"Ready?" he asked, sliding in beside me.
"As I'll ever be."
The car pulled out of the Marchetti estate, the iron gates fading in the rearview. I rested a hand on my massive belly, watching the world blur by.
Then chaos erupted.
Our car lurched as something rammed us from the side. Bullets shattered the window beside me, glass exploding in a deafening spray.
"GET DOWN!" the driver yelled, whipping out a gun from under his seat.
I screamed, curling over my belly to shield the babies as shards rained down. Gunfire cracked like thunder, relentless. The driver fired back through the wreckage, his face stone-cold, dropping attackers one by one with lethal shots. Black SUVs swarmed us, rifles blazing from open windows, muzzle flashes lighting the street.
"Luca!" I shrieked. "What the fuck is happening?!"
He shoved me down, shielding me with his body. "Stay down!"
Another impact spun us wildly. Bullets tore through metal, the stench of gunpowder and burning rubber choking the air. The driver nailed two more gunmen—bodies crumpling to the pavement—but they kept coming, ripping holes in the doors and windshield.
A sharp crack. The driver's head snapped back, blood splattering the glass.
"Oh God, no!" I cried.
The car veered out of control, slamming into a tree with a screech of twisted metal. Everything stopped.
My ears rang. Smoke filled the cabin. Blood filled my mouth.
"Ava?" Luca's voice cut through the haze. "You hurt?"
"I—I don't know—"
Footsteps crunched on glass outside.
Luca reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. A goddamn gun.
My brain short-circuited. Why the hell did Luca have a gun? Who were these people?
He fired through the shattered window, precise and unflinching, like a pro. One attacker dropped. Then another. He moved with deadly efficiency, mowing down the rest.
The last one fell. Silence hit like a wall, broken only by the engine's dying hiss and my ragged breaths.
Luca panted, gun still in hand, his shirt torn and bloodied.
"What the hell just happened?" I whispered, voice trembling. "Who were they? Why do you have a—"
"Ava." His tone turned ice-cold. He turned to me.
That's when I saw it.
The gun. Barrel rising. Pointing straight at me.
His face was blank, eyes dead—like a stranger's.
"Luca?" My whisper cracked. "What are you doing?"
No answer. Just that steady barrel, aimed at my heart.
"Luca, please—"
The world tilted. Darkness swallowed me whole, the last image burned in: the father of my babies, gun trained on me.
