Chapter 19
The darkness wasn’t empty; it was cold, turbulent, and red.
My consciousness was a boat adrift in a sea of pain during a storm. I floated to the surface, only to be pulled back down by waves of agony.
The first flash: the floor… The polished marble of my office, rising too fast to meet me. The sickening sound of me crashing against the stone and the scream that died in my throat before it could even be born.
The second flash: the smell… iron… salt. The hot, metallic scent of my own blood spreading beneath me, soaking my clothes, stealing my warmth, and Silvio’s face, contorted not by remorse but by selfish horror.
The third flash: a deeper, more terrifying pain. A violent contraction, as if I were being torn in half as my body fought to expel the life inside me. A spasm that stole my breath and brought the certainty of death. No. Not now. Not like this…
My baby.
I was struggling. I tried to clutch my belly, to protect him, but my hands were heavy as lead. I heard voices, distant, distorted as if they were underwater.
The voice was hoarse, broken, filled with a panic I’d never heard before.
Stay with me! Don’t close your eyes!
Marco… Sirens and a constant howling that pierced my ears.
I was freezing; the cold was so deep it seeped into my bones.
I felt them move me, but I was dizzy, intoxicated by the smell, the sounds, and the bright lights that flashed overhead like shooting stars at high speed.
“Blood pressure dropping!” someone shouted. “Severe bleeding. Placental abruption.” Hands were touching me, cutting my clothes. “Prepare the operating room. Now! Code Red!”
Someone pressed a mask against my face. The chemical smell of the anesthesia filled my lungs, suffocating and sweet. I fought against it and tried to raise my hand, to push them away. I couldn’t fall asleep. If I fell asleep, I’d lose him…
“Where’s the father?” a nurse shouted.
The question echoed in the gray fog that was swallowing my mind. The irony was so cruel it made me want to cry. Dad. The man I hated and loved. The man who destroyed me and who, somehow, was holding my hand as I slipped into the abyss.
Marco…
Then the darkness took me.
***
I didn’t wake up suddenly, but in a slow, painful ascent from unconsciousness, like emerging from a lake of tar.
The first sense to return was my sense of smell.
I was overcome by the sterile, unmistakable, and overpowering scent of a hospital.
The second was sound. A low, rhythmic, constant, and hypnotic beep.
The third was pain… Agony played through every part of me, but different from before.
The dull pain in my hip and shoulder—where I’d fallen—was a distant echo.
What was screaming out was a sharp, burning pain located in my lower abdomen, a line of fire that seemed to cut me in half with every breath.
I opened my eyes to soft light filtering through the blinds of a private room. I tried to move, but the slightest turn sent a wave of nausea and pain that made me choke, catching my breath.
My memory came flooding back in a brutal flash: the blood… my baby…
My hand, heavy and unsteady, reached down, groping my belly. The proud, firm, high curve of eight months… was gone. My belly was smaller, swollen, and covered with thick, soft bandages.
The beep from the monitor beside me quickened, betraying the panic that exploded in my chest.
“No…”
A sob tore through my dry throat, scratching like glass.
“No, please, no…”
I’d lost him.
After everything: being left at the altar, the public humiliation, seven months of loneliness, the daily struggle to protect him from the world and from my own sadness… Silvio had won. He had finally taken EVERYTHING from me…
The pain in my heart was infinitely stronger than the pain of the surgical incision. I couldn’t breathe; the air felt thin, and the room was spinning… suffocating me in my own tragedy.
“NO!”
My scream was a broken whimper, a sound of pure desolation.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room, emerging from the half-light.
I hadn’t seen him. He was sitting in a dark armchair, far from the light, hidden as if he had no right to be there.
He wasn’t the ghost who had broken into my office.
He wasn’t the impeccable CEO who had humiliated himself on TV…
This was a man who had walked through hell and hadn’t come back whole.
His white button-down shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly, and the fabric was…
stained. Covered in dark, dried, rust-colored marks… my blood.
A few days’ stubble covered his tense jawline, darker than I remembered. His green eyes—usually so sharp and calculating—were sunken, ringed by purple dark circles, red from exhaustion or crying. He looked as if he’d aged a decade in a single night.
Marco was by my bedside in a second, moving quickly but hesitantly and desperately.
“Bianca?” His voice was hoarse and faltering, as if he hadn’t used it in hours.
He didn’t touch me. His hands hovered over me, shaking visibly, as if he were afraid I’d shatter if he made contact.
“You’re awake…” he whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Grazie a Dio…”
“The baby.” My voice was low, but it carried an absolute demand. I didn’t care about his pain or mine, or even if the world had ended—I just wanted to know the truth about my baby…
Marco’s face contorted, a mask of raw emotion I’d never seen on him before. The tears, which he was obviously holding back with all his might, got the better of him. They fell, tracing clean paths through the grime and exhaustion on his face.
He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, gasping for air.
The monitor’s beep turned into a shrill alarm, racing along with my heart.
“Marco, tell me!” I shouted, trying to sit up, but the pain threw me back onto the pillow with a groan. “Is he… is he dead?”
“No!” Marco leaned forward, gripping the bedrail. “No… he’s alive.”
His voice cracked on the last word, turning into an unsteady sigh.
I froze. The monitor’s alarm softened slightly, mirroring my disbelief.
“Is he?”
“Yes, Bianca.” Marco grabbed my hand. His touch was warm, damp, desperate—an anchor in my storm. “It’s a boy… Bianca.”
Tears streamed from my own eyes, hot against my temples, soaking the pillow.
“But… how?”
Marco swallowed hard, clasping my hand with both of his and bringing it to his lips.
“An emergency C-section… they had to get him out.” He struggled to find the words, his voice choked with emotion. “He’s in the Neonatal ICU. He’s eight months premature, but he’s fighting. The nurse said he’s stubborn, just like you.” He let out a laugh that was more of a choked sob.
Relief was still surging inside me, too great to contain. Tears fell unchecked, hot and sincere, as I breathed heavily, as the truth finally settled inside me: my son was alive. Marco was by my side the whole time, holding my hand as if it were already part of him.
The fog began to lift, bringing the real world back, and my chest tightened.
“Silvio.” The name came out weaker than I’d intended.
I’d always tried to be a strong woman, but ever since Marco came into my life, bringing all his demons with him, vulnerabilities I didn’t even know I had ended up being exposed, and it seemed too late to turn back.
Marco lifted his face immediately, but he didn’t tense up the way he used to. He was just steady, focused on me.
“He doesn’t matter right now.” Marco ran his fingers across my face, brushing a strand of hair aside. “My focus is on you and the baby…” He leaned in, his voice low but steady. “I’ll take care of him later, the way it needs to be done. But right now… I won’t take my eyes off you two.”
I felt the truth in those words. It wasn’t an empty promise, but a decision.
“Marco…” My voice faltered as the pain surged.
“Shh…” He adjusted the blanket over me with extreme care, almost desperately. “Where does it hurt?” His fingers traced the side of my arm, searching for an answer.
The surgical pain flared up again in my abdomen. My breath caught. He noticed before I could say a word.
“I’ll call the nurse.” Marco took a step forward, already tense and ready to act.
“No.” I squeezed his hand, as weary as it was steady. “Just stay here.”
He stopped immediately and came back to my side. He touched my forehead with something cold, and only then did I notice the damp towel in his hand. He wiped my face slowly, as if it were something precious.
“I’m here,” he said, holding the washcloth as his eyes studied me, attentive to my every movement. “I’m not going anywhere.”
There was so much in him: guilt, fear, but above all, there was surrender. The same surrender I had confessed hours earlier, when I told him I loved him. He didn’t shy away from that word; he had accepted it and carried it in his gaze.
I watched him for a moment, taking in every detail. The steady posture of someone who’s found his place. The hands that touched me gently, as if he finally understood the weight of having me there. There was no conflict within me. Just a new, deep calm.
He intertwined our fingers, and there was nothing in me asking for distance.
I closed my eyes, not because I wanted to push him away, but because I trusted that he would still be there when I opened them—and he was.
I knew it…