Chapter 3 - The Empty Offering
By the time Dante Romano finally walked into my hospital room, our son was already a day old.
He entered like a hurricane that had suddenly run out of air. He was wearing a heavy charcoal coat over a wrinkled black dress shirt, looking like a man who had not slept a single second since boarding his private jet.
In one hand, he clutched a dark velvet jewelry box. In the other, a massive, expensive bouquet of white roses.
I looked at the diamonds. I looked at the flowers. Then, I looked at him.
“You came,” I said, my voice entirely flat, devoid of any warmth or anger.
“Bella…” Dante breathed, his chest heaving as he stepped toward the bed. “I’m so sorry. Things got incredibly complicated in Italy. The meeting went long, and my phone—”
“Don’t.”
One word. That was all it took.
Dante stopped dead in his tracks. I had watched heavily armed men tremble in front of my husband when he raised his voice. Now, standing in a sterile maternity ward holding guilt-offering roses, he looked absolutely terrified of me.
I adjusted the soft cotton blanket around my sleeping baby, keeping my eyes fixed on the tiny rise and fall of his chest.
“His name is Leo,” I stated.
Dante looked at the bundle in my arms, his jaw trembling. “Leo. He was born yesterday at 6:52. Seven pounds, six ounces.”
Dante’s throat moved with a hard swallow. “He has your hair.”
He took another tentative step closer. His dark eyes filled with something I had once desperately, pathetically wanted to see. Love. Profound regret. Maybe a mixture of both.
May you like
“Isabella, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
I said nothing. I just stared at him, feeling absolutely nothing.
