God, Alessio didn't even know yet.
How was I supposed to tell him? Hey, I know we just survived your blood oath confrontation with my father, and I nearly got murdered, but surprise—you're going to be a dad. Of twins. In seven months. Hope that's okay.
The absurdity almost made me laugh.
Almost.
Footsteps in the hallway—heavier than the nurses', purposeful.
The door opened.
Alessio stood there looking like he'd gone to war and barely survived. White bandage across his forehead, purple bruising already blooming around his eye, moving carefully like his ribs hurt with each breath. Still wearing the blood-stained clothes from the estate, though someone had tried to clean him up.
But alive. Whole. Here.
Our eyes met, and something in my chest unlocked.
He crossed the room in three strides despite obvious pain, sank into the chair beside my bed, took my hand in both of his like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
"You're okay," he breathed, pressing my knuckles to his lips. "Cristo, Valentina, you collapsed, and they wouldn't let me follow you, and I didn't know—"
"I'm okay. We're okay."
He froze. "We?"
The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
I watched understanding dawn across his face. Watched his eyes go wide, then drop to my stomach, then back to my face. Watched him process, calculate, realize.
"Valentina." His voice came out strangled. "Are you—"
"Pregnant. Eight weeks." The words tumbled out fast, nervous. "The doctor just told me. They did an ultrasound, and Alessio… It's twins. We're having twins."
Silence.
He just stared at me, expression completely blank, and terror seized my chest.
He doesn't want this. It's too much, too fast, too complicated—
Then his face crumpled.
He pressed his forehead to our joined hands, shoulders shaking, and I realized with shock that he was crying. Silent, overwhelming tears that he tried to hide but couldn't.
"Alessio?" My free hand went to his hair, stroking gently. "Talk to me. Please."
He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed but blazing with something fierce and protective and awed.
"Twins," he whispered. "We made twins."
"Is that—are you happy? Or—"
"Happy doesn't begin to cover it." His hand moved to my stomach, hovering like he was afraid to touch. "Can I—"
"Yes."
His palm settled over my still-flat belly, warm and gentle. Reverent.
"Hi," he murmured to my stomach, voice thick with emotion. "Hi, babies. Your papà is here. And he's going to keep you safe. I promise. Whatever it takes."
