But so was the determination.
Whatever it took. However long it took. I'd keep them safe.
All of them.
That was my new blood oath. Not to criminal empires or family honor. To the woman I loved and the children we'd created.
And unlike the oath to Marco, this one I'd never break.
CHAPTER 20
Valentina
The morning sickness hit at 6:47 a.m., same as every morning for the past month.
Eleven weeks pregnant with twins now, and despite Dr. Morrison's assurances during our appointment two weeks ago that the nausea would ease as I entered the second trimester, my body clearly hadn't gotten the memo.
I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach rebelled, heaving even though I hadn't eaten in hours. Alessio appeared in the doorway—he'd learned to wake at the first sounds of me stumbling from bed—with a cool washcloth and that worried expression I was seeing too often.
I hated that expression. Hated being the reason for it.
"Still bad?" he asked, though he could see the answer.
"Morning sickness is a lie," I muttered, accepting the washcloth and pressing it against my forehead. "It's all-day sickness. All-night sickness. Every-moment-of-existence sickness."
"The doctor said it should ease up soon."
"The doctor also said to reduce stress." I sat back against the cool tile, exhausted despite just waking. "How's that going?"
I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to feel something—some flutter, some sign of the lives causing all this chaos. Nothing yet. Too early. Just the constant nausea reminding me they were there, making their presence known in the most miserable way possible.
I wondered which one was the troublemaker. Maybe both. Maybe they were already conspiring against me, tiny co-conspirators plotting my digestive destruction.
The thought made me smile despite everything. My children. Already keeping me on my toes.
Alessio crouched beside me, careful of his still-healing ribs, and brushed hair back from my face. "Want me to make you toast? Sometimes that helps."
"Maybe." I leaned into his touch. "I'm growing two tiny terrorists who hate me."
"They don't hate you. They're just making their presence known."
"Aggressively."
"They're ours. Were you expecting subtle?"
I laughed, which was a mistake—my hand to my still-flat stomach lurched again. But it was worth it.
The FBI finally cleared me to visit Sofia in person three days later—two weeks after the ultrasound where we'd first seen our babies' heartbeats, and a month after the shooting that had nearly killed her.
My mother looked smaller than I remembered.
Eighteen years of separation, and the first thing I noticed when I entered her private room was how fragile she seemed. Left arm in a sling, shoulder heavily bandaged from the surgery that had saved her life.
She looked up when I entered. For three heartbeats, we just stared at each other.
Then I crossed the room and carefully wrapped my arms around her, mindful of her injured shoulder. She held me with her good arm, and we both started crying.
"I'm sorry," she kept saying. "I'm so sorry I left you—"
