Chapter 39
SAVANNAH
I hear the elevator before I see him.
Dante is asleep in my arms, his tiny body warm against my chest. Two months old and still so small, though he’s gained weight since coming home from the NICU. The doctors say he’s thriving despite his early arrival. That he’s strong.
He gets that from his father.
The elevator doors open, and Ledger steps out. He looks tired. The ankle monitor is visible beneath his pants.
“Hey,” he says quietly, not wanting to wake the baby.
“Hey.”
He crosses the room and sits beside me on the couch, looking down at Dante’s sleeping face. “How is he?”
“Fed and happy. Slept for three hours straight last night. That’s a record.”
“That’s good.” He reaches out, traces one finger along Dante’s tiny hand. Our son’s fingers curl reflexively around Ledger’s, gripping tight. “He’s gotten bigger.”
“Four ounces this week. The pediatrician is pleased.”
We sit in silence for a moment, watching our son sleep. The afternoon light streams through the windows, casting everything in gold.
“Two years,” I say finally. “Monday morning.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure this is the right choice? Taking the deal?”
“It’s the only choice.” He leans back against the couch. “The alternative was life in prison. This way, I get to come home. I get to watch him grow up, even if I miss the first two years.”
“The first two years are important.”
“I know. But it’s better than missing all of them.” He looks at me. “You’ll be okay? Managing everything?”
“Alexi will help. He’s ready to step up. And Elena is moving in with him next month, so he’ll have support.” I shift Dante slightly, adjusting his head on my shoulder. “We’ll visit you. As often as they let us.”
“It’s minimum security. Should be able to have visitors weekly. Maybe more.”
“Then we’ll be there every week. We’ll make sure he knows his father.”
Ledger’s jaw tightens. “He won’t remember me. By the time I get out, he’ll be two years old. I’ll be a stranger to him.”
“You won’t be a stranger. We’ll make sure of it. Photos, videos, visits. He’ll know you.” I reach for Ledger’s hand. “And when you come home, we’ll have the rest of our lives together.”
He pulls me against him, careful not to crush Dante between us. His face presses into my hair, and I feel him breathe me in, like he’s trying to memorize my scent.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you both so much.”
“I know. And we love you too.”
Dante stirs, makes a small sound. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and dark. At two months, he’s just starting to see clearly, just beginning to recognize faces.
“Hey, buddy,” Ledger says softly. “Hey, Dante.”
The baby’s eyes track toward his father’s voice. Not quite focusing, but close.
“He knows you,” I say. “Look, he’s trying to find you.”
Ledger takes Dante from my arms, cradling him carefully. Our son looks impossibly tiny against his father’s chest. Ledger talks to him quietly, telling him things I can’t quite hear. Promises, maybe. Apologies. Plans for when he comes home.
I watch them together, and my chest aches. This is what we fought for. This moment. This family.
And now we have to give up two years of it.
Alexi and Elena come for dinner that evening. Elena made lasagna—her grandmother’s recipe, she says—and brings wine that no one drinks because I’m still nursing and Ledger wants to stay clearheaded.
“To family,” Alexi says, raising his water glass. “And to Dad coming home soon.”
We eat and talk about normal things. Nothing about federal prison or plea deals or ankle monitors. Just family. Pretending everything is normal.
After dinner, Alexi pulls Ledger aside. I see them in the office, talking quietly. Alexi’s expression is serious. Ledger’s hand is on his shoulder, passing on advice, instructions, or maybe just reassurance.
When they return, Alexi hugs me tightly. “Call me if you need anything. Day or night. I mean it.”
“I will.”
“And bring Dante by the office anytime. I want him to know where his dad works. Want him to understand the legacy he’s inheriting.”
“He’s two months old.”
“Never too early to start.” Alexi grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Savannah.”
“You too.”
Elena hugs me next, whispers that she’ll check on me weekly, that she’ll help with Dante whenever I need. Then they leave, and it’s just us again.
Ledger. Me. Dante.
One last night together.
Dante goes down at eight, milk-drunk and content. I put him in the crib, watch his little chest rise and fall, and pray that two years from now he’ll still be this peaceful. This safe.
When I return to the bedroom, Ledger is standing at the window looking out at the city. The ankle monitor is visible.
“He’s asleep?” he asks without turning.
“Finally. Fought it for twenty minutes but eventually gave in.”
“He’s stubborn. Gets that from you.”
“He gets everything good from me. Everything stubborn and reckless from you.”
He turns, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Hunger. Need. Desperation. “Come here,” he says.
I cross the room. His hands are on me immediately, pulling me close, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is deep, consuming, tasting like goodbye, promise, and fear all mixed together.
“Savannah.” My name is a prayer on his lips.
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
My hands slide under his T-shirt, palms gliding over the hard planes of his back, the ink I know by heart. He yanks the shirt off, then peels mine away. My breasts are fuller since Dante, nipples darker, sensitive. He cups them gently, thumbs circling until I arch, a soft moan slipping out.
“Still so beautiful,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth. His tongue flicks one peak, then the other, sucking gently, then harder when I gasp his name. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, begging without words.
He kisses lower, over the soft curve of my belly, lingering where it’s still rounded from carrying our son.
I pull him back up, needing his mouth on mine. I reach between us, shove his sweatpants down, wrap my hand around his cock, already leaking for me. He groans into my mouth, hips jerking.
“Inside me,” I breathe. “Now. I need my husband inside me.”
He settles between my thighs, nudging them wider. The head of his cock brushes my entrance, slick and ready. He doesn’t rush. He slides in slow, inch by inch, eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker across my face.
When he’s buried to the hilt, we both exhale like we’ve been holding our breath for months.
“God, Savannah,” he rasps. “You feel like home.”
He starts to move, long, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
Our bodies find the rhythm we’ve perfected, slow at first, savoring, then faster, harder, chasing the connection we’re terrified to lose.
I arch against him, pulling him deeper. My fingers dig into his back, holding on like he might disappear if I let go.
“Don’t forget me,” I whisper. “Two years is a long time. Don’t forget what this feels like.”
“Never.” He moves faster, harder. “I could never forget you.”
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight, pinning it beside my head. His forehead drops to mine, breath mingling. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Don’t close your eyes. I want to see you when you come.”
I force my eyes open, meet his gaze, dark, fierce, full of love. Every thrust pushes me higher, pleasure coiling tight and bright behind my navel. He shifts his angle, hits that perfect spot, and I cry out, nails digging into his shoulder.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls, voice breaking. “Let me feel you. Let me feel my wife come apart for me.”
I’m close, so close. His hips snap harder, the bed creaking softly, city lights strobing over sweat-slick skin. I clench around him deliberately, and he groans, pace faltering.
“Ledger, I’m—”
“Me too. Come with me, princess. Now.”
One more deep thrust and I shatter, walls pulsing, milking him in waves. He follows instantly, burying himself deep, spilling hot and endless inside me, our bodies locked together as we fall. His groan is muffled against my neck, my name a broken prayer on his lips.
We stay joined, trembling, hearts hammering in sync. He shifts so his weight isn’t on my chest, forehead still pressed to mine, without pulling out.
Tears slip from the corners of my eyes.
“I’ll feel you every day,” he whispers, thumb brushing the tears away. “Every night I’m gone, I’ll remember this. Remember being inside you, feeling you come around me, knowing you’re waiting.”
“I’ll be right here,” I promise, voice cracking. “Every visiting day. Every phone call. Every second.”
“I love you,” he says. “God, I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” I press a kiss to his chest. “And I’ll be here when you get out.”
“Promise me you’ll be happy. That you won’t just sit around waiting for two years.”
“I’ll live my life. Take care of our son. Run the businesses. But I’ll also be waiting. Because you’re worth waiting for.”
Eventually, we make love again. Slower this time. Tender. Saying with our bodies what words can’t capture.
And when we finally fall asleep, tangled together in our bed, I memorize everything. The weight of his arm across my waist. The sound of his breathing. The way his heartbeat sounds against my ear.
Two years.
We can survive two years.
We have to.