Page 174 of Freed
Then the doctor lifts my son into the light, red-faced and furious at the world, and I swear my heart leaves my body.
Our son.
Elizabeth starts crying first. I don’t realize I am crying too until the nurse says, “You have a healthy baby boy,” and my vision blurs so badly I have to blink to keep from losing the moment.
They lay him on Elizabeth’s chest.
I have killed men for touching what I love, and yet I have never seen tenderness like this. Her trembling hand on his tiny back. The way he quiets at the sound of her voice. The way she looks down at him like the world has finally given her something gentle.
I am ruined by it.
Completely.
I bend, kiss her hard, then kiss his tiny forehead because I cannot stop myself.
“He’s beautiful,” I say, and my voice sounds nothing like mine.
Elizabeth laughs wetly. “He looks angry.”
“He looks like a Conti.”
That earns me the weakest eye roll of my life, and God, I love her. I love her so much it feels like a wound.
The nurse asks if we have a name. We decided this months ago, one quiet night when she was half-asleep against my chest and the city was glowing outside and everything between us felt fragile enough that I did not dare move too quickly.
Now I look at my son and say it aloud.
“Stefano Dante Conti.”
Elizabeth looks up at me through tears, and the softness in her face nearly drops me to my knees.
Stefano, after my grandfather. And Dante. For the man who helped her live long enough to come back to me. For the man who died in the middle of our war and deserved better than the end he got. There are debts in this world no blood ever fully pays. A name is not enough. But it is what I can give him now.
Elizabeth brushes a fingertip over our son’s cheek. “Stefano,” she whispers.
I put my hand over hers, then over the small furious boy between us, and for the first time in my life I understand what it means to fear God. Not as punishment. As gratitude. Because I have no idea what I did to deserve this, and yet it is here.
The bedroom is quiet three days later when I wake in the chair beside our bed, my neck ruined, my shirt wrinkled, and one hand still resting on the edge of Stefano’s bassinet.
I open my eyes to find Elizabeth watching me.
Her mouth curves. “You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
I stand, lean over, and kiss her. Slow. Careful. She still looks breakable to me, even though I know better than to say it. She would probably hit me with a water pitcher.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Like I had a mafia prince by way of battlefield extraction.”
“That sounds accurate.”
I glance toward the bassinet. Stefano is asleep, one tiny fist near his face, dark hair already visible against the blanket. He looks peaceful now. Innocent. I know better than to trust that. He is my son. Peace is probably temporary.
Elizabeth follows my gaze and smiles.
