71. Luna
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
LUNA
The release papers have been signed, and today I’m going home with a little bundle in my arms. I’m overwhelmed as a nurse wheels me through the lobby.
Mateo walking beside us, quiet and watchful.
Someone says, “Congratulations,” knowing this is a new beginning for all of us. And I’m not sure we’re ready.
I can feel Nico’s eyes on me, but we haven’t spoken much, not since the discharge papers were signed. We’ve both been through so much, and neither one of us knows how to process everything.
Nico refuses to let Mateo drive, so I sit in the back with the baby.
Stubborn man. His grip on the wheel is tight, and his other hand hovers near Sandro’s car seat.
Tense and protective, expecting trouble that never comes.
I yearn to cover mine with his, to find that connection, but I don’t. Letting him concentrate on driving.
Sandro sleeps through every bump, and every breath Nico takes when a daredevil cyclist veers too close. The world outside is unpredictable. It’s full of risks that Nico can’t control, but here, in this car, he’s the one keeping us safe.
When we finally pull into the gated driveway, our new home, he blows out a breath. “Safe,” he murmurs, like he needs to hear it to believe it.
I reach for the car door, but Nico’s already there. “I’ve got you,” he says, scooping me into his arms like I’m a feather. Mateo lifts the baby carrier with both hands and follows us up the steps.
Sophie’s already waiting at the door. “Welcome home, baby boy,” she whispers, brushing her knuckles against Sandro’s cheek before kissing mine. She walks ahead of us since both men have their hands full. And the moment Nico steps inside the house, I feel it.
Relief. Fear. Gratitude. All of it hits me at once.
I bury my face in his neck, hiding the tears I can’t hold back. He says nothing, just holds me tighter and starts up the stairs, one careful step at a time. I let myself sink into him, breathing in the scent of home and him and everything I thought I might never feel again.
By the time we reach our room, I’m still crying. He doesn’t let go, just sits in the rocking chair by the window. Like we have all the time in the world. I curl into his lap with his arms wrapped around me. It’s the safest I’ve felt in a very long time.
Across the hall, I hear Sandro’s tiny cry, then Sophie’s voice—low, soothing. Mateo says something I can’t make out. I don’t need to. They’ve got him. For once, we’re not alone.
“You’re home,” Nico whispers, more to himself than to me.
“I’m home,” I whisper back.
I’m too afraid to look around the room. Since the last time I was here, the floor was slick with my blood. I can still hear Nico’s voice shouting for help, while my body betrayed me.
“It’s okay to look, amore mio,” he says quietly, his mouth near my ear. “It’s clean now. You’re safe. So is Sandro.”
“If it’s too much,” he adds, “we don’t have to stay in here. We can move. Whatever you need.” I take a breath, then another. And slowly, I lift my head and glance around the room.
Sandro’s cry interrupts us. It’s soft, but it cuts through the quiet like a thread pulling me back. Nico brushes his lips against mine before gently lifting me from his lap and easing me onto the bed.
“Rest,” he murmurs, tucking the blanket around me. “Sophie will bring him.”
A few moments later, Sophie steps inside, cradling Sandro. She places him in my arms with gentle hands.
“There you go, mama,” she says softly. “He’s ready for you.”
The second his warmth settles against my chest, I make a promise. That nothing or no one will touch him while I’m breathing.
Taking a deep breath, I glance around the room. Everything’s different, yet the same. The floors are spotless, as if it never happened at all. But it did, because I’m holding our son. And he’s perfect.
I press my lips to the top of his head and whisper, “You’re safe and I’m here with you. We made it, baby boy.”
Sandro is so small and soft against my skin, his mouth working in slow, sleepy pulls.
This is your inheritance, I think, watching as he suckles lazily at my breast. Oblivious to the world he’s inherited.
A legacy built from pain, yes, but also from love that didn’t break us, even when we thought it would.
I’m grateful that all he knows right now is warmth. Safety. Me.
Later that night, Nico watches us from the doorway. He thinks I don’t notice, but I feel his gaze like a second pair of hands—checking locks, counting breaths, ensuring we’re all safe.
When Sandro wails at 2 a.m., Nico is there before I can rise, holding him close, his touch instinctive. He moves with care, supporting Sandro’s neck, cradling him like he’s done it a hundred times before.
“You’re a natural,” I murmur.
He grunts, adjusting his grip ever so slightly, and the baby’s cries soften.
I study the curve of Nico’s jaw in the lamplight, the way his thumb traces slow circles on Sandro’s back. A killer’s hands, gentled.
Our protector, always.
Nico’s staring at Sandro like he’s memorizing every inch of the child in his arms. The way his tiny fingers curl against his chest, the constant rise and fall of his breaths. He doesn’t want to let him go.
But then Sandro stirs, his mouth searching, his little whimper cutting through the quiet, and Nico knows. He eases down beside me, pressing the baby into my arms, knowing I have what he needs.
I cradle him against me, and the second he latches, relief washes over both of us. His tiny body relaxes, his hands fisting into the fabric of my nightgown.
I glance at Nico; his eyes are locked on us, something brewing behind them.
He runs a hand over his face, exhaling. “I want him with us.” His voice is rough and honest, as if he’s confessing something.
“I don’t want him in the nursery. I want,” He swallows hard.
“I want to wake up and see you both in our room.”
I press my cheek to Sandro’s head, breathing him in, feeling the warmth of his small body against mine.
“Then we’ll have Sophie move the bassinet to our room,” I murmur.
Nico leans in and presses a soft kiss to Sandro’s cheek. I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together over Sandro’s back. A silent promise: we’re in this. All of us.
Tonight, and every night after, we’ll be together.
Nico doesn’t rest, not yet. He carries me into one of the guest rooms, so Sandro and I won’t be disturbed while he makes the necessary arrangements.
Once we’re comfortable, he moves through the halls like a man on a mission, directing staff, overseeing details, ensuring every last piece falls into place. He’s relentless.
The nursery is stripped down, rearranged, and made into something worthy of our son.
The bassinet is carried into our room, blankets are carefully folded, and the chair by the window is adjusted so I can sit with Sandro in the early mornings.
The security is checked twice, locks reinforced, and cameras repositioned.
Nico refuses to leave even the smallest detail unchecked.
Later that day, when I wake, Nico’s standing by the door, watching me. His face is unreadable. In just a few steps, he reaches out his hand, helping me to my feet, as he cradles Sandro in his arms.
“Come see,” he murmurs.
And when we step into our room, the space, now Sandro’s, now ours, is so different.
Gone are the remnants of the life we had before. His bassinet rests against the wall where a mirror used to hang, his blankets tucked neatly beside the chair Nico insisted we keep. The curtains are lighter, the air softer, carrying his scent—indescribable, yet entirely ours.
I watch Nico from across the room. He’s standing like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his breath hitching when he looks at Sandro. He’s trying to hold it together. But it’s not just us anymore. It’s him. It’s our son.
I cross the space before he can retreat, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.
“We did it,” I whisper, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
His forehead drops to mine, and his arms wrap around me, holding me close. “You almost died.”
“I didn’t.”
His grip tightens. “You almost did.”
I press my lips to his jaw. “I’m here. And so is he. We’re okay.”
He buries his face against my neck, breathing me in and holding me like I might slip away if he lets go.
I let him.
Because after everything, the blood, the battles, the impossible odds, we’re still standing.
The End