Chapter 18
Valentina
The hospital room was too bright, too white, too sterile.
I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of monitors, my body feeling heavy and disconnected like I was floating slightly above the bed. The IV tugged at my hand when I tried to move. Everything hurt in a distant, muffled way—like pain happening to someone else.
Where am I?
Memory crashed back in fragments. The panic room. The livestream. Marco's cutting torch eating through steel. Alessio appearing like salvation. The fight. SWAT. Marco being dragged away in cuffs.
Then… nothing.
I'd collapsed. Right there in Alessio's arms while he was still bleeding from the ambush.
Alessio.
Panic spiked through the fog. Where was he? Was he okay? They'd separated us, taken him somewhere for treatment—
"Ms. DeLuca?" A nurse appeared at my bedside, young and kind-faced. "You're awake. Good. How are you feeling?"
"Where's Alessio? The man who was with me—is he okay?"
"He's being treated. Cracked ribs, head laceration, and various contusions. He'll be fine." She checked my IV and made notes on a tablet. "But right now, let's focus on you. Any pain? Nausea? Dizziness?"
"I'm fine. I just need to see him—"
"The doctor will be in shortly. She has some information to discuss with you first."
Something in her tone made my stomach clench. The careful neutrality healthcare workers used when delivering news—good or bad—made their voices sound exactly the same.
What's wrong? What did they find?
The nurse left. I lay there staring at the ceiling tiles, counting them obsessively because focusing on something concrete kept the panic at bay.
Forty-seven tiles. Forty-eight if you counted the partial one by the door.
Footsteps in the hallway. Multiple sets. Voices discussing patient charts, medication schedules, and the mundane chaos of a busy ER.
None of them was Alessio's voice.
I needed to see him. Needed to confirm with my own eyes that he was alive, whole, safe. My hands clenched in the sheets, and the IV tugged again—a sharp reminder I was tethered here, couldn't just get up and find him.
The door opened.
A doctor entered—thirty-something, dark hair pulled back, tired but professional. Her badge read Dr. Lida Chao, OB-GYN.
OB-GYN.
My heart stopped.
"Ms. DeLuca." She pulled up a chair, sat at eye level with practiced bedside manner. "I'm Dr. Chao. I've been reviewing your labs and ultrasound results."
"Ultrasound?" My voice came out thin. "Why did you do an ultrasound?"
"Standard protocol for any woman of childbearing age presenting with your symptoms." She pulled up images on her tablet and turned it toward me. "Ms. DeLuca, you're pregnant. Approximately eight weeks."
The world tilted sideways.
Pregnant.
The word echoed in my skull, not quite connecting to reality.
I stared at the grainy black-and-white image on her tablet. I couldn't process what I was seeing. Just shapes. Shadows. The medical equipment was showing me something impossible.
"I can't be pregnant," I heard myself say. "We've been careful. Mostly. I mean—"
Except we hadn't. Not always. Not in the cabin when we'd celebrated survival. Not that night after we'd stolen evidence from Marco's estate, high on adrenaline and relief. Not the dozen other times when fear and love and desperate need had overridden caution.
"You're definitely pregnant," Dr. Chao said gently. "And Ms. DeLuca—" She zoomed in on the ultrasound. "It's twins. See here? Two distinct gestational sacs. Two heartbeats."
She pointed to two tiny flickering spots on the screen.
Two.
Twins.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at those two impossibly small lives growing inside me while my entire world rearranged itself around this new reality.
I'm going to be a mother. Of twins. Alessio's twins.
"Based on your hormone levels and measurements, conception was likely early to mid-September," Dr. Chao continued. "Which puts you at eight weeks now. Due date approximately late May, early June."
September. The cabin. When we'd been hiding from Marco, falling in love, choosing each other despite every reason not to.
We'd created life in the middle of running for ours.
"Are they—" My voice cracked. "Are they okay? After everything—the stress, the drugs Simpson gave me, Marco—"
"Heartbeats are strong. Development appears normal for gestational age.
But Ms. DeLuca, I need to be honest with you.
" Dr. Chao's expression grew more serious.
"The level of trauma and stress you've experienced—both physical and psychological—puts this pregnancy at higher risk.
The drugs in your system, the physical altercations, the extreme fear response—all of that can impact fetal development. "
Ice flooded my veins. "What does that mean?"
"It means we'll monitor you very closely.
Weekly ultrasounds initially, frequent blood work, and watching for any signs of complications.
You'll need to minimize stress as much as possible—" She caught herself, almost laughed.
"Which I realize sounds absurd given your circumstances.
But whatever you can do to reduce physical and emotional strain will help. "
Reduce stress. Right. While testifying against my father. While processing that he'd tried to murder me. While figuring out how to build a life with Alessio, when everything was falling apart.
Simple.
"Can I see him?" The question burst out. "Alessio. Please. I need to see him."
Dr. Chao's expression softened. "He's the father?"
"Yes."
"He's been asking about you constantly. Drove the nurses crazy demanding updates." She smiled. "Let me check with his treatment team. If he's cleared, I'll have someone bring him up."
She left. I lay there staring at the ultrasound image still displayed on the tablet she'd left behind.
Two tiny spots. Two heartbeats. Two lives that depended entirely on me keeping myself alive and safe.
What have we done?
Not regret. Not exactly. But overwhelming terror at the enormity of it.
I was going to be someone's mother. Two someones. Would be responsible for keeping them alive, safe, and loved. Would have to figure out how to raise children when I barely knew how to keep myself alive.
And Alessio—
God, Alessio didn't even know yet.
How was I supposed to tell him? Hey, I know we just survived your blood oath confrontation with my father, and I nearly got murdered, but surprise—you're going to be a dad. Of twins. In seven months. Hope that's okay.
The absurdity almost made me laugh.
Almost.
Footsteps in the hallway—heavier than the nurses', purposeful.
The door opened.
Alessio stood there looking like he'd gone to war and barely survived.
White bandage across his forehead, purple bruising already blooming around his eye, moving carefully like his ribs hurt with each breath.
Still wearing the blood-stained clothes from the estate, though someone had tried to clean him up.
But alive. Whole. Here.
Our eyes met, and something in my chest unlocked.
He crossed the room in three strides despite obvious pain, sank into the chair beside my bed, took my hand in both of his like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
"You're okay," he breathed, pressing my knuckles to his lips. "Cristo, Valentina, you collapsed, and they wouldn't let me follow you, and I didn't know—"
"I'm okay. We're okay."
He froze. "We?"
The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
I watched understanding dawn across his face. Watched his eyes go wide, then drop to my stomach, then back to my face. Watched him process, calculate, realize.
"Valentina." His voice came out strangled. "Are you—"
"Pregnant. Eight weeks." The words tumbled out fast, nervous. "The doctor just told me. They did an ultrasound, and Alessio… It's twins. We're having twins."
Silence.
He just stared at me, expression completely blank, and terror seized my chest.
He doesn't want this. It's too much, too fast, too complicated—
Then his face crumpled.
He pressed his forehead to our joined hands, shoulders shaking, and I realized with shock that he was crying. Silent, overwhelming tears that he tried to hide but couldn't.
"Alessio?" My free hand went to his hair, stroking gently. "Talk to me. Please."
He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed but blazing with something fierce and protective and awed.
"Twins," he whispered. "We made twins."
"Is that—are you happy? Or—"
"Happy doesn't begin to cover it." His hand moved to my stomach, hovering like he was afraid to touch. "Can I—"
"Yes."
His palm settled over my still-flat belly, warm and gentle. Reverent.
"Hi," he murmured to my stomach, voice thick with emotion. "Hi, babies. Your papà is here. And he's going to keep you safe. I promise. Whatever it takes."
I laughed through sudden tears. "We're going to be terrible at this."
"Probably." He looked up, smiled through his own tears. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Like everything else."
"Together," I agreed.
He shifted carefully onto the bed beside me despite his injuries, pulled me against his chest with infinite care. I tucked myself into his side, one hand still on my stomach, his hand covering mine.
For a long moment, we just breathed together, processing the enormity of everything that had happened in the past twelve hours.
Marco was arrested. The blood debt was broken. The threat had ended.
And now this—new lives growing inside me, product of love born from impossible circumstances.
"When did it happen?" Alessio asked quietly. "Do you know?"
"The doctor thinks early September. The cabin."
"The cabin." He repeated it softly, and I felt his smile against my hair. "When we were hiding from your father. When you taught me about Renaissance art, and I taught you to shoot."
"When we fell in love."
"When we fell in love," he confirmed.
His hand moved in gentle circles over my stomach. "Eight weeks. Due in May?"