Chapter 20
Valentina
Eleven weeks pregnant with twins now, and despite Dr. Morrison's assurances during our appointment two weeks ago that the nausea would ease as I entered the second trimester, my body clearly hadn't gotten the memo.
I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach rebelled, heaving even though I hadn't eaten in hours. Alessio appeared in the doorway—he'd learned to wake at the first sounds of me stumbling from bed—with a cool washcloth and that worried expression I was seeing too often.
I hated that expression. Hated being the reason for it.
"Still bad?" he asked, though he could see the answer.
"Morning sickness is a lie," I muttered, accepting the washcloth and pressing it against my forehead. "It's all-day sickness. All-night sickness. Every-moment-of-existence sickness."
"The doctor said it should ease up soon."
"The doctor also said to reduce stress." I sat back against the cool tile, exhausted despite just waking. "How's that going?"
I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to feel something—some flutter, some sign of the lives causing all this chaos. Nothing yet. Too early. Just the constant nausea reminding me they were there, making their presence known in the most miserable way possible.
I wondered which one was the troublemaker. Maybe both. Maybe they were already conspiring against me, tiny co-conspirators plotting my digestive destruction.
The thought made me smile despite everything. My children. Already keeping me on my toes.
Alessio crouched beside me, careful of his still-healing ribs, and brushed hair back from my face. "Want me to make you toast? Sometimes that helps."
"Maybe." I leaned into his touch. "I'm growing two tiny terrorists who hate me."
"They don't hate you. They're just making their presence known."
"Aggressively."
"They're ours. Were you expecting subtle?"
I laughed, which was a mistake—my hand to my still-flat stomach lurched again. But it was worth it.
The FBI finally cleared me to visit Sofia in person three days later—two weeks after the ultrasound where we'd first seen our babies' heartbeats, and a month after the shooting that had nearly killed her.
My mother looked smaller than I remembered.
Eighteen years of separation, and the first thing I noticed when I entered her private room was how fragile she seemed. Left arm in a sling, shoulder heavily bandaged from the surgery that had saved her life.
She looked up when I entered. For three heartbeats, we just stared at each other.
Then I crossed the room and carefully wrapped my arms around her, mindful of her injured shoulder. She held me with her good arm, and we both started crying.
"I'm sorry," she kept saying. "I'm so sorry I left you—"
"Stop." I pulled back enough to meet her eyes—the same warm green I'd inherited. "You did what you had to do. You survived. You built a case. None of this is your fault."
We talked for hours. About the years apart, the choices she'd made, the life I'd lived without her. She cried when I told her about the engagement to Richard, about discovering Marco's crimes, about running.
"I tried to warn you," she whispered. "Left messages with people I thought might reach you. But Marco was watching everything. I couldn't risk him finding me before I was ready."
"You're here now. That's what matters."
Then I told her about the babies.
Her good hand flew to her mouth, fresh tears spilling. "You're pregnant?"
"Twins. Eleven weeks now. We saw their heartbeats on the ultrasound two weeks ago."
She reached out slowly, reverently, and placed her palm against my stomach. The small bump was just starting to show—barely visible under loose clothing, but undeniable when you knew what you were looking for.
The gesture was so tender, so maternal, it broke something open in my chest.
"My baby is having babies," she whispered, voice thick with wonder and grief and joy all tangled together.
"Insane, right?"
"Beautiful," she corrected, looking up at me with shining eyes. "Complicated and terrifying and absolutely beautiful. You're going to be an amazing mother, Valentina. You already are."
The words settled over me like a blessing I hadn't known I needed.
We sat together for another hour, her hand never leaving my stomach, both of us crying and laughing and healing in ways I hadn't thought possible.
When I finally left, she gripped my hand tightly. "Come back soon. I want to be part of this. Part of their lives. If you'll let me."
"Of course I will. They need their grandmother."
"And I need my daughter." She squeezed harder. "I love you, Valentina. I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day."
"I love you too, Mom."
The word—Mom—felt strange on my tongue after so many years. But right. Finally right.
That night, unable to sleep despite exhaustion, I found Alessio on the safe house patio. Stars scattered across the Arizona sky, more than I'd ever seen growing up in the city.
He sensed my presence and pulled me down beside him. For a long moment, we just sat in silence, both processing everything.
"I keep thinking about them," I said finally. "Those two tiny heartbeats we saw on the screen."
"Me too."
"What if we can't protect them? What if Marco—" My voice cracked. I couldn't finish the thought.
Alessio's arm tightened around me. "We will. Whatever it takes."
"I want them to have normal," I whispered. "Boring, safe, normal. Everything we never had."
"Then that's what we'll give them." His hand found my stomach, protective and gentle. "Small town. Good schools. Backyard where they can play. Nobody trying to kill their parents."
I laughed despite the tears in my eyes. "Setting the bar pretty low there."
"Bar's been underground for months. I'm just trying to get it back to ground level."
"What would you tell them? About us? About how they came to be?"
He was quiet, thinking. "The truth. That their mother was the bravest person I ever met. That she saved me before I saved her. That they were born from something terrible, but they're proof that good can come from darkness."
"That's beautiful."
"You make me better, principessa. You and them. You make me want to be the man they deserve."
"You already are."
We sat in silence after that, his hand never leaving my stomach, both of us lost in thoughts of the future we were fighting so hard to build.
The desert night had turned cold, but I didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the spell of this moment—the two of us under infinite stars, his hand warm on my stomach where our children grew.
"We should go inside," Alessio said finally. "You're shivering."
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn." But he was already standing, pulling me up with him. "Come on. I'll warm you up."
The look he gave me wasn't subtle. After everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the constant nausea—I should have wanted nothing more than sleep.
But I wanted him more.
Inside, he turned to face me, and something shifted in the air between us. The tenderness from the patio was still there, but underneath it, something hungrier. Something that had been waiting.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his hand sliding to my hip. "With the babies—"
"The doctor said it's fine. More than fine." I stepped closer, eliminating the space between us. "I want to feel something good, Alessio. I want to feel alive."
He kissed me then—slow at first, careful, like I might break. I bit his lower lip, a reminder that I wouldn't.
The kiss deepened. His hands found the hem of my shirt, and I lifted my arms, let him pull it over my head. He looked at me in the dim light—my body already changing, breasts fuller, the slight curve of my stomach where our children grew.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and the way he said it—reverent, almost awed—made my throat tight.
"Less talking." I reached for his shirt. "More touching."
He laughed, low and warm, and helped me pull it off. Then his mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, trailing lower while his hands worked at my pants.
We made it to the bedroom somehow, shedding clothes along the way. He laid me down on the bed with such gentleness it made my heart ache. His hands traced every change in my body—the fuller breasts, the rounded belly, the silvering stretch marks that mapped where our children grew.
"You're carrying our babies," he said quietly, pressing kisses along my stomach. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Tears pricked my eyes. "Alessio—"
"Let me worship you properly." He settled between my thighs, his eyes meeting mine. "Let me show you how much I love every part of you."
His mouth found me, and coherent thought scattered.
He moved slowly, reverently, like he had all the time in the world. No urgency, no rush—just devoted attention that made me feel cherished in a way I'd never experienced. His beard scratched sensitively against my inner thighs as he worked, building pleasure in slow, deliberate waves.
My hands threaded through his hair, not pulling, just touching, connecting. "Alessio, I need—"
"I know what you need, amore." His voice was muffled but certain. "I've got you."
He changed his rhythm, added pressure exactly where I needed it, and the orgasm rolled through me like a slow sunrise—building, warming, flooding every nerve with golden heat.
I trembled through it, and he gentled me down with soft kisses pressed to my thighs, my hips, the curve of my belly.
"Hi, babies," he whispered against my skin. "Your papà loves your mama very much."
The tenderness of it broke something open in my chest.
When he moved back up, I reached for him, needing to give back what he'd given me. But he caught my hands gently.
"Tonight is about you," he said. "About showing you how loved you are."
"I want to touch you too."
"You are touching me." He brought my hands to his chest, held them over his heart. "Right here. Where it matters."