Chapter 2 - The Birth of a King
The following morning, at 6:52 a.m., my son arrived screaming into a sterile, brightly lit room.
He was seven pounds, six ounces of absolute perfection. He had a mop of thick black hair, tiny clenched fists, and an angry little face that demanded the world's attention.
“He’s perfect,” Sofia wept softly, cutting the cord when the doctor offered her the scissors.
The nurse wiped him down and placed his warm, writhing body against my bare chest. For nine months, I had imagined Dante beside me during this exact moment. I had pictured the feared, untouchable Dante Romano breaking down in tears when he saw his first child. I had pictured him kissing my forehead and thanking me.
Instead, the leather chair beside my hospital bed was completely, agonizingly empty.
I looked down at my son, tracing the soft curve of his cheek, and felt the last remaining thread of my devotion to Dante snap. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t plotting some chaotic, dramatic revenge. The love I had harbored for seven years simply evaporated, replaced by a fierce, impenetrable armor.
“What are you naming him?” Sofia asked, gently stroking his tiny head.
“Leo.”
Dante thought we were still choosing between three traditional family names. We weren’t. The boy belonged to me now.
Hours later, Matteo, one of Dante’s most loyal lieutenants who had been stationed outside my door, eventually managed to contact him.
“You have a son, boss,” I heard Matteo say softly into his phone in the hallway. “Isabella and the baby are safe.”
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Later, Matteo would confess to Sofia that Dante’s very first, panicked question had been: “Has she asked for me?”
No. I hadn’t.
