Ezio squirmed at the sound of his voice and turned his head toward us. Recognition.
"They know you already," Nurse Sarah said softly. "They've been hearing your voices for months. This is just the first time they're hearing you from outside."
That thought made me cry harder—months of talking to my belly, singing lullabies, reading stories, and they'd been listening the whole time—broke something open in me.
"You're going to be okay," I told them both. "Both of you. You're fighters. You're going to fight and grow strong and come home to us. I know you will."
We stood there for another twenty minutes, just being present, letting our babies know they weren't alone.
Finally, reluctantly, I pulled my hands back.
"You should rest," Nurse Sarah said gently. "You just had major surgery. The babies will be here when you wake up, and you'll heal faster if you let your body recover."
She was right, but leaving them felt impossible.
"I'll be back," I promised, pressing my palm against Eva's isolette, then Ezio's. "In a few hours. Mama and Daddy will be back. We love you so much."
Alessio took my hand, and we walked slowly back to my recovery room.
Neither of us spoke. Couldn't find words for what we'd just experienced—the terror and joy and overwhelming love for two tiny humans fighting for every breath.
In the hallway, I noticed Rodriguez coordinating with hospital security. FBI agents were stationed throughout the floor.
Because Marco was still out there. Still cooperating with prosecutors. Still hunting us.
I let the thought pass without holding it. There would be time for fear later.
Right now, hands still tingling from touching my children, Alessio's fingers interlaced with mine, I felt only this:
Joy. Relief. Love.
Our babies were here.
Premature. Fragile. Fighting.
But here.
And whatever came next, we'd face together.
As a family.
CHAPTER 25
Alessio
Day two in the NICU, and I still couldn't breathe properly when I looked at them.
Eva and Ezio. Our children. They were so impossibly small in their isolettes, covered in wires and monitors that beeped with every heartbeat.
Ezio was thriving—he'd gained two ounces overnight, his oxygen levels were perfect, and he was already trying to pull out his feeding tube. The nurses called him "feisty."
Eva was fighting harder. She was still on CPAP respiratory support, her tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical assistance. But her oxygen saturation had improved from yesterday, and the doctors seemed cautiously optimistic.
Small victories.
I stood between their isolettes, one hand in each, touching my children through the ports.
"Morning, babies," I said softly. "Daddy's here. Mama's sleeping—she needs to heal—but she'll be back soon."
