“I love you,” he says. “I love you both so much.”
“I know. And we love you too.”
Dante stirs, makes a small sound. His eyes flutter open, unfocused and dark. At two months, he’s just starting to see clearly, just beginning to recognize faces.
“Hey, buddy,” Ledger says softly. “Hey, Dante.”
The baby’s eyes track toward his father’s voice. Not quite focusing, but close.
“He knows you,” I say. “Look, he’s trying to find you.”
Ledger takes Dante from my arms, cradling him carefully. Our son looks impossibly tiny against his father’s chest. Ledger talks to him quietly, telling him things I can’t quite hear. Promises, maybe. Apologies. Plans for when he comes home.
I watch them together, and my chest aches. This is what we fought for. This moment. This family.
And now we have to give up two years of it.
Alexi and Elena come for dinner that evening. Elena made lasagna—her grandmother’s recipe, she says—and brings winethat no one drinks because I’m still nursing and Ledger wants to stay clearheaded.
“To family,” Alexi says, raising his water glass. “And to Dad coming home soon.”
We eat and talk about normal things. Nothing about federal prison or plea deals or ankle monitors. Just family. Pretending everything is normal.
After dinner, Alexi pulls Ledger aside. I see them in the office, talking quietly. Alexi’s expression is serious. Ledger’s hand is on his shoulder, passing on advice, instructions, or maybe just reassurance.
When they return, Alexi hugs me tightly. “Call me if you need anything. Day or night. I mean it.”
“I will.”
“And bring Dante by the office anytime. I want him to know where his dad works. Want him to understand the legacy he’s inheriting.”
“He’s two months old.”
“Never too early to start.” Alexi grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Savannah.”
“You too.”
Elena hugs me next, whispers that she’ll check on me weekly, that she’ll help with Dante whenever I need. Then they leave, and it’s just us again.
Ledger. Me. Dante.
One last night together.
Dante goes down at eight, milk-drunk and content. I put him in the crib, watch his little chest rise and fall, and pray that two years from now he’ll still be this peaceful. This safe.
When I return to the bedroom, Ledger is standing at the window looking out at the city. The ankle monitor is visible.
“He’s asleep?” he asks without turning.
“Finally. Fought it for twenty minutes but eventually gave in.”
“He’s stubborn. Gets that from you.”
“He gets everything good from me. Everything stubborn and reckless from you.”
He turns, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. Hunger. Need. Desperation. “Come here,” he says.
I cross the room. His hands are on me immediately, pulling me close, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is deep, consuming, tasting like goodbye, promise, and fear all mixed together.
