I laughed through sudden tears. "We're going to be terrible at this."
"Probably." He looked up, smiled through his own tears. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Like everything else."
"Together," I agreed.
He shifted carefully onto the bed beside me despite his injuries, pulled me against his chest with infinite care. I tucked myself into his side, one hand still on my stomach, his hand covering mine.
For a long moment, we just breathed together, processing the enormity of everything that had happened in the past twelve hours.
Marco was arrested. The blood debt was broken. The threat had ended.
And now this—new lives growing inside me, product of love born from impossible circumstances.
"When did it happen?" Alessio asked quietly. "Do you know?"
"The doctor thinks early September. The cabin."
"The cabin." He repeated it softly, and I felt his smile against my hair. "When we were hiding from your father. When you taught me about Renaissance art, and I taught you to shoot."
"When we fell in love."
"When we fell in love," he confirmed.
His hand moved in gentle circles over my stomach. "Eight weeks. Due in May?"
"Late May, early June. The doctor said." I hesitated, not wanting to shatter the moment but needing him to know. "Shesaid the stress and trauma put the pregnancy at higher risk. The drugs Simpson gave me, everything with Marco, all of it. She wants to monitor me closely."
Alessio's hand stilled. "Risk how?"
"She didn't specify. Just said we need weekly ultrasounds, to watch for complications, minimize stress." The irony wasn't lost on either of us. "Which is going to be difficult while testifying against Marco and figuring out witness protection and—"
"We'll make it work," he said. "Whatever you need. Whatever they need. We'll make it work."
"You sound so certain."
"I am." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "You survived your father trying to murder you while pregnant with my children. If that didn't break you, nothing will. We'll handle whatever comes next."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to feel that same certainty.
Instead, I felt overwhelmed. Unprepared.
"I don't know how to be a mother," I admitted quietly. "My own mother left when I was eight. Marco was—well, you know what he was. I don't have good models for this, Alessio. What if I'm terrible at it? What if I mess them up the way my parents messed me up?"
"You won't." He tilted my chin up and made me meet his eyes. "You're nothing like Marco. Nothing like the people who hurt you. You're brave and kind and strong. You'll be an amazing mother."
"How do you know?"
"Because you ran when you discovered the truth instead of staying comfortable. Because you fought back when it would've been easier to submit. Because even now, scared and hurting and overwhelmed, your first instinct is to protect them." His hand pressed gently over my stomach. "That's what goodmothers do. They protect their children even when they're terrified. You're already doing it."
The words cracked something open inside me. Fresh tears spilled over.
"We're really doing this," I whispered. "Having babies. Building a family."
"We really are."
"In the middle of everything falling apart."
"Best time for new beginnings." He smiled, and despite the bruising and blood and exhaustion, it transformed his entire face. "When everything else is burning down, you build something better from the ashes."
