Dear God, if my baby is fine, I'll do it. I'll take the deal. And go as far away as I can from here.
Anything to make sure my child doesn't become like his father. Because then… my heart would be dead and buried.
I may love Enzo, but I love my baby more.
The momentwe pull into the parking spot, Enzo scoops me up in his arms, running toward the ER.
I'm hyperventilating, thinking something might have happened to my baby. His due date is in a few more weeks. This wasn't how it was all supposed to go.
I'm taken to the maternity ward, where I'm told that they have to induce labor to ensure that the baby is fine.
Terrified, I clutch Enzo's hand.
"My baby…" I cry out, the thought that something might have happened to him killing me.
"He'll be fine," Enzo tries to assure me, but I'm past the point of reason.
"It's all your fault," I whimper as they plug me into some machines to keep track of my heartbeat.
"Honey, you need to calm down. Your pulse is through the roof, and it's not good for the baby," one of the nurses tells me, teaching me a few breathing techniques.
I start breathing in and out, still not letting go of Enzo. He's there with me through the whole ordeal—me cursing him out, telling him he should die and that I loathe him with all my being.
He doesn't respond. He continues to hold me and to whisper encouraging words in my ear.
Even when my labor starts, he doesn't budge from my side.
"You can do it, little tigress. You can do this," his voice somehow soothes me, even when my mind is far from this reality.
At some point, I start pushing.
For what seems like hours, or days, I'm in a state of confusion, physical and emotional strain. My body feels at its limit, and my mind is about to snap.
My breath ragged, sweat clinging to my skin, and tears dried on my cheeks, I keep pushing.
Until I hear a tiny wail.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Agosti," I hear the doctor say before a tiny human is placed on my chest.
"You can have a few moments before we weigh him and make sure he's healthy, given the late preterm delivery."
I nod absentmindedly. For the first time, my mind clears as I look into the sweet face of my son. He's moving on my chest, his eyes closed, his mouth half open, almost as if trying to grasp at something. From the corner of my eye, I see Enzo come closer, offering his little finger for him to hold on to.
"Thank you," his voice is low and full of emotion, tears at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you for the most wonderful gift, little tigress."
I don't acknowledge his words. Instead, my focus is on my little human.
"What will you name him?" a nurse comes to check on us.
Enzo's brows furrow, since we haven't decided yet.
"Luca," I say suddenly. "For the man who saved us." Enzo freezes when he hears that, understanding the double meaning of my words. Enzo may have been the one to save us, but he'd unleashed an unnecessary bloodbath. Luca's sacrifice had been heroic and devoid of cruelty.
"Luca it is, then," he nods, and I detect a hint of hurt in his voice.
"Wonderful name. I'll take little Luca to get him cleaned before we do the health checkup."
When the doctor informs us that Luca is fine, both Enzo and I breathe a sigh of relief. And with that happy tidbit of information, I can finally fall asleep.
