Epilogue #3
I’m crying. I’m actually fucking crying, tears streaming down my face like a goddamn baby, and I don’t care. I can’t take my eyes off them—my woman, my son, this perfect little family that I somehow, against all odds, managed to create.
“He’s perfect,” I manage, my voice rough with emotion. “You’re perfect. Both of you.”
Contessa looks up at me, her eyes swimming with tears, and the smile she gives me is so bright it could power the entire city.
“Come here,” she says softly. “Meet your son.”
I lean down, careful not to crush either of them, and press my lips to her forehead, then to the top of our son’s head. He’s so small, so fragile, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling against Contessa’s skin.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Hi, little man. I’m your daddy.”
He opens his eyes. They’re dark and he makes a small sound that goes straight through my chest and lodges itself permanently in my heart.
“He has your eyes,” Contessa says, tracing his cheek with one finger. “See? That’s all you, Matteo.”
I shake my head, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “No. He has your everything. I can already tell.”
She laughs, the sound watery and exhausted, and beautiful. “He has your stubbornness too. Did you see how hard he was fighting to come out? That’s all you, babe.”
Dr. Chen and the nurses work around us, cleaning up, checking vitals, doing whatever medical shit they need to do, but I barely register any of it. My entire world has narrowed to the two people in front of me.
“We did it,” Contessa murmurs, her eyes drifting closed with exhaustion. “We actually did it.”
“We did,” I agree, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “You did. You were incredible.”
She opens one eye to glare at me. “Damn right I was. And don’t you forget it.”
I laugh, the sound rough and emotional and completely unlike me. “Never. I’ll tell everyone who’ll listen how fucking amazing you were.”
“Good.” Her eyes close again, a small smile playing at her lips. “Now ask the nurse to bring me some ice chips before I pass out.”
I snap to attention, turning to the nearest nurse with my most commanding look. “Ice chips. Now. And water. And whatever else she needs.”
The nurse nods, already moving toward the door. “Yes, sir.”
I turn back to Contessa and our son, my heart so full I think it might actually burst. He’s stopped crying now, his tiny face peaceful as he rests against Contessa’s chest. I reach out, carefully running one finger along his arm, marveling at how small he is, how perfect.
“What should we name him?” Contessa asks, her voice drowsy with exhaustion.
I look at her, then at our son, and something clicks into place—a name I’ve been turning over in my mind for weeks, waiting for the right moment.
“Luca,” I say quietly. “After my grandfather. He was the strongest man I ever knew.”
Contessa’s eyes open, meeting mine with a softness that makes my chest ache. “Luca,” she repeats, testing the name. “Luca Marino.”
“Luca Gallo-Marino,” I correct, because I’m not about to erase her name from our child’s identity.
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. “You’d do that? Give him my name too?”
“He’s as much yours as he is mine,” I say simply. “More, really. You did all the hard work.”
She laughs, the sound tired but genuine. “Damn right.”
The nurse returns with ice chips and water, and I help Contessa take small sips, holding the cup steady because her hands are still shaking.
Luca makes a tiny sound against her chest—not quite a cry, more like a protest—and I watch his little face scrunch up in that way that already makes my chest feel like it’s being ripped open.
“Here,” Contessa says, adjusting him slightly. “Take him for a minute. I need to drink this without dropping him on his head.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my hands hovering uselessly because suddenly I’m terrified I’m going to break him.
“Matteo, you’ve literally killed people. I think you can hold a baby.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. Just exhaustion and something soft that makes my throat tight.
I reach down and carefully, so fucking carefully, lift my son from her chest. He’s lighter than I expected—barely anything at all—and he feels like holding a heartbeat wrapped in skin.
I cradle him against my chest, one hand supporting his head, the other cupping his tiny body, and I swear to god I’ve never been more afraid in my entire life.
“Hi,” I whisper again, because apparently that’s the only word my brain can produce right now. “Hi, Luca.”
He blinks up at me, those dark eyes unfocused but somehow seeing straight through me, and I feel something crack open in my chest that I didn’t even know was sealed shut.
Twenty-two years of being dead inside, of keeping everything locked down tight, and this eight-pound screaming miracle just kicked the door off its hinges without even trying.
“He’s going to look just like you,” she whispers.
“God help him.”
She laughs, the sound tired but real. “I love you, Matteo.”
“I love you too.”
God help anyone who tries to come between me and my family. I’ll tear them limb from limb, use their blood as wood stain and smile as I feed their bodies to the fishes.