Chapter 18 #3
When he pulls back, there’s fierce pride burning beneath the exhaustion and tears. A father who saved his child’s life with his own body.
But the movement costs him. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck going rigid. A tremor of pain runs through him. I can see it in the gray pallor of his skin, the sheen of sweat at his temples, the way each breath comes shallow and careful.
“Cristiano, please use that morphine pump.”
“I want to see him.”
“You can’t get up.”
“Then get me a wheelchair.” The don’s voice. Low and dangerous and leaving no room for argument. “Get me a wheelchair or I walk there myself.”
Mom and Adora exchange a helpless look.
I take his face in my hands. “Leon is alive. He’s stable. He’s sleeping, and he won’t wake for hours. He won’t even know you’re there.”
“I’ll know.”
“You’ll be walking in a couple of days. But if you tear your stitches or fall down and hurt yourself, it could be weeks. Do you want days, or weeks?”
His jaw works. His hands fist in the sheets.
“Let me go to the ICU and video call you from the doorway. You’ll see him.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. I can’t watch you hurt yourself. Not after what you just did for Leon.”
Something in him gives. A long, shuddering exhale. His body sags back against the pillows.
“You’ll call me the moment you see him?”
“The moment I’m at the door.”
“Okay.”
I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. “The morphine, Cristiano.”
He grimaces. Nods.
I squeeze his hand once, then let go. Mom settles back into the armchair by the window. Adora perches on the edge of his bed, one hand resting gently on his arm.
“We’ll keep him company,” Adora says to me. “Go see your son.”
The pediatric ICU is quiet. Dimmed lights, soft beeping, the hush of machines keeping small bodies alive. A nurse leads me to a private room at the end of the corridor, and I pause in the doorway.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and video call Cristiano.
He answers before the first ring finishes. From his tense face, I don’t think he’s had any morphine yet.
I direct the front camera toward the small figure in the big bed.
“There he is,” I whisper. “Can you see him?”
Cristiano holds the phone close to his face.
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “I see him.”
Leon looks so small, surrounded by monitors and tubes. There’s a breathing tube down his throat, an IV in his tiny hand, wires trailing from his chest. His skin is still yellow, but somehow, he looks better. Stronger. Or maybe I just want to believe that.
“He’s breathing,” Cristiano says, like he’s confirming it to himself. “He’s really breathing.”
“He’s really breathing. He made it. You saved him.”
He looks up and turns the phone away from his face. “Look at him. Look at my son.”
Mom and Adora appear on the screen. Mom is crying. Adora is smiling. They whisper to Leon as he sleeps, telling him how proud they are of him, their voices soft and tender.
“Now use that morphine pump and get some sleep,” I tell Cristiano. “I’ll come back when he’s settled.”
“Okay.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Okay, Mina.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket. At my son’s bedside, I pull a chair close, and take his small hand in mine.
For several hours, I just sit with him. Drinking him in. The rise and fall of his chest. The soft beep of the monitors. The color slowly returning beneath the yellow of his skin.
I memorize every detail. The curl of his fingers. The sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. The way his brow furrows slightly, even in sleep, just like his father.
I press a kiss to Leon’s forehead, careful not to disturb the tubes.
“Papa saved you,” I whisper. “We both love you so much.”
I could stay here all night, watching him breathe. But I want to check on Cristiano. The nurse assures me that someone will always be close if Leon wakes.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell my son. “I’ll be right down the hall.”
The walk back to Cristiano’s room feels longer than before. My legs are heavy, my eyes burning.
I push open the door quietly. Cristiano is asleep. Really asleep this time, not the fitful, drugged drifting off like before, but deep and still. He’s finally used the morphine pump. His face is relaxed, the tension gone.
The room is empty now. Adora has returned to her husband, and Mom has gone home for some much-needed rest.
I sink into the chair beside Cristiano’s bed and take his hand in mine. He stirs slightly, his fingers tightening around mine, even in sleep, and then settling again.
Through the window, the stars are scattered across the darkening sky.
I have them both back. My son down the hall, breathing, healing. This man beside me, who gave part of himself to save him.
For the first time in days—maybe for the first time in years—the tight knot of fear in my chest begins to loosen.
Thank you, I think. To Cristiano. To the surgeons. To whatever force in the universe let me keep them both.
Cristiano’s hand stays warm in mine.
We made it.
We all made it through today.