Four months later, I was officially showing.
Not just a little bump that could be hidden under loose clothing a real, obvious, can't-miss-it baby bump that announced to the world that Isabella Moretti was pregnant.
"You're glowing," Maria said during our weekly lunch at a café in SoHo. "Seriously. You look amazing."
"I feel like a whale."
"You're five months pregnant. You're supposed to look pregnant." She sipped her coffee, studying me. "How's Dante handling it?"
"He's… intense. Last week he fired a waiter at the restaurant because the guy accidentally bumped into me. Didn't hurt me, didn't even really touch me, just got too close while carrying a tray."
"Classic overprotective husband behavior."
"It's getting worse. He wants me to stop going to Commission meetings. Says it's too stressful for the baby."
"And what do you say?"
