“The baby looks good, Dad.”
The technician prints a few images.“Your doctor has the bloodwork and genetic results. I’ll get these ultrasounds ready, then you can head to his office.”
She leaves, taking the wand and the noise with her, but the screen stays on—my kid still glowing in black and white. Silence drops hard between us.
I grab a paper towel and wipe the gel from Beatrice’s stomach. She pulls her shirt down, eyes never leaving the monitor.
“I can’t believe I’m about to become a mother,” she says quietly. “There’s a whole human growing inside me.”
Something tightens in my chest—sharp, sudden—but I force my jaw steady. No breaking. Not here.
She turns to me, tears in her eyes, and whatever control I’m holding slips just enough to show.
I lean in and kiss her forehead. My voice comes out low, rough.
“That’s our child.”
For a moment, everything I’ve lived through—every fight, every bullet, every close call—lines up and points at this. At her. At the kid on the screen.
And I know one thing with absolute clarity: anyone who tries to touch them won’t live long.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, cupping my cheek. “I know you never?—”
“Bea.” I stop her. “You’re my wife. That baby is mine. Blood or not doesn’t matter. They’re a Davacalli. That’s the end of it.”
Her eyes soften, something warm breaking through her shock. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
I kiss her palm, brief and controlled. “You married me. That’s enough.”
Her smile trembles. “I love you, Matteo Davacalli.”
“And I love you,” I reply, steady as stone.
I kiss her—quick, grounding, final—because anything longer and I might forget we still have a doctor to meet, a world to protect, enemies who would take any chance to strike.
When I pull back, I look at her and know the truth without needing to say it. These two are my entire life now.
And God helpanyone who tries to take them from me.
The clinic doorsslide shut behind us with a soft hiss, and for a moment I stand there with my hand on the small of her back, grounding myself.
She’s glowing. The sunlight hits her just right, turning her skin gold. It shouldn’t hit me the way it does, but it does every damn time.
I help her into the car, take the wheel, and pull out of the parking lot with the new ultrasound photos tucked safely beside me. We drive in silence—comfortable, steady, the kind that settles deep.
Adjusting to married life has been easy. Too easy. I can’t even remember what my life looked like before her. Looking back, it feels like I was just moving from point A to B, nothing lasting, nothing real. She changed all of that without even trying.
Her hand rests on mine over the console, her thumb tracing slow circles across my knuckles like she owns the right to soothe me—and she does.
The city drifts by in warm afternoon light. Traffic hums around us. Someone honks a few lanes over, but none of it reaches me.
I glance at her. Her head leans against the window, eyes half-closed, her hand still linked with mine.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been thinking about names.”
Her eyes open, lazy and curious. “Oh?”
“For the baby.”
