CHAPTER 50
NINA MARCHESI
SEVEN MONTHS LATER — PIENZA, ITALY
I look down at my feet and silently lament. They look like two overstuffed loaves. Loaves don’t feel pain, damn it. They’re soft and fluffy.
I reach out, steadying myself against the wall, and start walking slowly. After nearly twelve hours on shift, carrying a massive nine-month belly, my body is begging for a break. God, I’m exhausted.
“Nina, are you trying to avoid the walk from home to here on the day you’re giving birth?” Clara, a colleague from my shift, asks when she finds me halfway down the corridor and falls into step beside me. I laugh.
“You know how it is! There are no Ubers in this town,” I joke, earning a laugh from her. “I really need my bed,” I whine. “ER was a madhouse today. I swear I still don’t understand how a town with fewer than twenty-five hundred people can have so many medical emergencies.”
“We’re dedicated,” Clara says with a wink. She was born and raised in Pienza. Now it’s my turn to laugh. “But seriously—when are you stopping? Your name’s still on next week’s roster. That’s insane.”
“In two days. Kael’s due next week, according to plan,” I say, stroking my belly over my scrubs.
“I thought I could work right up until I literally started contracting, but I can’t anymore.
It’d be great if I could, because I really can’t afford to turn down extra shifts—but a woman has to recognize her limits. ”
“A woman who’s nine months pregnant, especially.”
“Well, you know the upside,” I say.
“At least you’re already at the hospital, right?” she asks with a smile.
“Exactly!” And as the last syllable leaves my mouth, I feel a pressure I’ve never felt before.
I stop the gentle caress, trying to pinpoint where the discomfort is centered—but I don’t need to try for long. Seconds later, liquid runs down my legs.
My eyes widen. My water broke!
I look down, and my chest fills with a jumble of emotions—fear, excitement, worry—all at once. There’s a flicker of guilt too, but I don’t linger on it. I need to call my mother.
“Oh my God! It’s time!” Clara says, thrilled, when she realizes I’ve fallen behind and looks back at me over her shoulder. She retraces her steps and looks toward the end of the corridor. “Woman in labor!” she shouts to someone I can’t see but assume is one of our colleagues.
I pull my phone from my pocket and place the call, controlling my breathing as help arrives. I sit in the wheelchair they bring while I wait for my mother to answer.
“Nina?”
“My water broke. He’s coming.”
“He’s coming?” Her question is an excited shout that makes me laugh. “I’m on my way! I’m on my way!”
“Don’t take too long. This little guy seems to be in a hurry.”
***
The contractions are frequent and intense. I try to breathe deeply and focus on my breathing, but it’s hard. My colleagues are monitoring me closely and reassuring me, but I know something is wrong.
After nearly eighteen hours of labor, I still haven’t dilated enough.
Even if I hadn’t noticed the heart monitors running much higher than they should, or my blood pressure through the roof, the splitting headache and relentless nausea would be symptoms enough.
My mother squeezes my hand, watching me with worry.
“Hi, Nina,” Dr. Elena says as she enters my room with a smile that doesn’t quite convince. “Your test results are back. Your preeclampsia has progressed to eclampsia. We’re going to need to do a C-section.”
“But he’s okay? Kael is okay?”
“He is. We’ve been monitoring you since the contractions began. The surgery is a safety measure—just to make sure we control the entire birth environment, all right?”
“All I want is for my baby to be born healthy and safe, Dr. Elena. If you can give me that, I don’t need anything else.”
“We’ll do our very best—and this big boy will arrive screaming, Nina. Shall we get you prepped for surgery?”
“Let’s do it.” I agree and look at my mother. Her eyes are wet, and I give her a reassuring smile.
We knew a C-section was a possibility. The events early in my pregnancy took their toll—preeclampsia—and since I started prenatal care here, Dr. Elena warned me it could progress and explained what we’d do if it did.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell my mother. “Our boy is coming.” Her clearly nervous nod and a kiss to the back of my hand are all the answer I get.
Anxiety races through my veins alongside the excitement of finally meeting my child.
My stubborn mind drifts to the image of his father; the anguish that always accompanies thoughts of Nero arrives swift and quiet.
I close my eyes, telling myself this is the worst possible moment for that, and hiding from myself how much I wish he were here.
I know this situation is out of my control, but I steady my breathing, forcing myself to stay calm. I receive medication to control my blood pressure and prevent seizures.
Time crawls until the moment of the C-section finally arrives. The nurses prep me for surgery, placing a cap on my head and an oxygen mask over my face.
The operating room is cold and quiet, except for the sounds of medical equipment and the voices of the staff at work. The anesthesia begins to take effect, and a wave of drowsiness and dizziness washes over me.
My mother tells me to focus on my breathing—and on my baby, who’s about to be born. The doctors’ and nurses’ voices grow muffled and distant, my awareness slipping away second by second, until emptiness embraces me.
***
“Careful, my daughter,” my mother warns as she opens the door for me. I hear her, but I can’t give her much attention—too focused on the little bundle in my arms to manage anything else.
I lower my face to Kael’s, brushing our noses together. His is so tiny it makes me want to nibble it as I babble nonsense in a voice I’ve apparently discovered exists only for him.
My baby sleeps in my arms, and I breathe out in relief as I step into our home for the first time in a week. My postpartum period wasn’t easy. The complications from eclampsia lingered, keeping me from coming home sooner—but now we’re okay.
Kael was born fifty-five centimeters long, weighing three kilos, six hundred and fifty-two grams. A big, incredibly healthy baby. That’s all that matters to me. His hair is thick and light, almost blond; his skin is very fair; and his eyes are blue—not like mine, but exactly like his father’s.
“We’re home, love,” I tell him. “Welcome to your home.”
My mother helps me sit in the nursing chair we placed in the living room, and I settle in. She sits on the armrest after fitting the nursing pillow around my torso, helping support Kael, and the two of us dote on him for what feels like hours.
“He’s perfect,” my mother says.
“He is.” I bite my lip and release a deep breath before broaching the subject that’s been consuming me since the first moment I laid eyes on my son. “I think at some point I’ll need to contact Nero to tell him Kael was born, right? I can’t hide forever. He’s his son too.”
Making that admission isn’t easy. Nothing involving Nero has been easy for a long time.
My mother and I left Greece with nothing but the clothes on our backs, our phones, and our documents. We knew that the moment we put luggage outside, the island would do what it does—and we’d risk not getting out before Lysandra or Nero found out.
Starting over wasn’t easy. The drastic change of city, climate, temperature, and environment was hard to adapt to. And although the money my mother had saved her entire life to buy her house became our emergency fund, it wouldn’t last forever.
We managed to get established, replace some of what we left behind—from clothes to furniture—and get by for a few months until we were both employed. But there was a baby on the way and three mouths to feed long-term. That, in truth, is still a constant worry.
We’re not on the brink of starvation, but the sense of urgency—the need for constant guarantees and a plan B, C, and even D—never leaves me. Still, things could have been much worse, of course, because our move wasn’t made up only of bad moments.
There were many good ones too. Small things—near-miracles—when we desperately needed something and suddenly got it. Renting this house, for example.
When we arrived in town, we stayed in the home of an elderly woman who rented out rooms—just one, for my mother and me.
We knew we’d need to move quickly to prepare for Kael’s arrival, but finding a landlord willing to rent without signing a contract isn’t exactly easy—and having our names on any housing document was a risk we weren’t willing to take, knowing Lysandra Zanthos might be looking for us.
We searched for a house for at least three months when we received a call from the owner of this one. He’d turned us down before—but changed his mind. And here we are. I like to call moments like that small miracles.
We chose Pienza as our temporary home based on nothing more than information we found on Google. The small town in the Italian countryside is compact enough that we didn’t feel displaced after years in Khione, has a hospital, and a reasonable cost of living.
Those were our main criteria, and we didn’t expect much beyond that—but the town was a pleasant surprise. Pienza has a sense of community as strong as Khione’s—stronger, actually.
After seven months here, it’s clear to me that the people care more about their neighbors’ well-being than about turning others’ lives into entertainment. And that definitely earns them a lot of points with me.
My mother looks at me as if weighing whether to tell me something.
“I know you think I shouldn’t worry about Nero, Mom, but I’m not thinking of contacting him for his sake—it’s for Kael. He deserves to have a father in his life.” My mother moistens her lips before letting out a deep breath.
“Atlas called while you were being prepped for surgery,” she says—and my eyebrows lift, because she never tells me that.
I know she’s been a source of information for Atlas about Kael and me ever since we left Khione. He calls at least once a month, but since our meeting at the airport, I’ve never spoken to him again.
I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. But I also know it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the only person who reached out to help of something as basic as knowing that I and his godson are well.
So I pretend I don’t know he calls, and my mother pretends he doesn’t. It was our unspoken agreement—until now.
“I’m telling you this not to hurt you, my daughter,” she continues, “but because I don’t want you to make a decision in the heat of the moment and regret it later.”
“Telling me what?”
“I was nervous when I answered Atlas’s call. The eclampsia scare rattled me, you know—but the boys were talking in the background, and I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“Overhearing what, Mom?” She swallows and blinks at me.
“Nero is engaged.”