It was starting to feel like a home.
And then Ezio came home.
Six pounds, feeding well, breathing perfectly. Cleared for discharge.
Alessio carried him to the car like he was made of glass.
"Going home, buddy. To your real home."
Eva would join us in another week.
I sat beside Ezio's car seat, unable to stop staring at his serious face, his dark eyes watching everything.
"Welcome home, baby. This is your world now. Safe. Full of people who love you."
At the house, Sofia had prepared everything was ready—the bassinet in the nursery, the bottles lined up in the kitchen, the tiny onesies Domenico had given us folded in the dresser.
We brought Ezio inside, and Alessio carried him through each room.
"This is home, piccolo. Where you'll grow up with your sister. Where Mama and Daddy will keep you safe forever."
That night, after the midnight feeding, we stood over his bassinet watching him sleep.
"One down, one to go," Alessio said softly.
"Then we're really a family."
"We're already a family. Have been since that motel room." He pulled me close. "But when Eva comes home, when we're all together—that's when we start living instead of surviving."
"Living," I repeated. "I like the sound of that."
Eva came home eight days later.
Five pounds, two ounces. Breathing perfectly. Cleared for discharge.
We brought her home to meet her brother. Watching Ezio stare at his sister with serious focus made my heart feel too big for my chest.
"That's your sister, Eva. You're going to protect each other forever."
That night, both babies finally slept in bassinets side by side, and Alessio and I collapsed on the couch. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. Grateful beyond words.
"We did it," I said. "Against everything."
"You did it. You survived your father, testified, gave birth early, kept fighting." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "You're the strongest person I know."
"We did it together. That's what made it possible." I looked at him. "I couldn't have survived without you."
"You could have. But I'm grateful you didn't have to."
We sat listening to our babies breathe.
"What happens now?" I asked. "With your family, the Valestri organization?"
"Domenico takes over officially. I'm out—completely, permanently." He gestured around. "This. Normal life. Normal problems. The most exciting thing should be which preschool to choose."
"That sounds perfect."
I leaned against him and felt safe for the first time I could remember.
