It traced a slow path before dropping onto the windowsill with the softest sound.
I didn’t wipe it away.
I drew in a shaky breath and forced my trembling legs to carry me to the nearest chair.
Strength had abandoned me completely.
Too many emotions crashed through my chest at once—relief for my son, terror for Vincenzo, exhaustion that went bone-deep.
I sank down and buried my face in my palms, eyes squeezed shut.
My mind kept circling back to Vincenzo.
Would Renzo come running back any second with the news that he was gone?
I didn’t think I could survive hearing those words.
Yes, he had hurt me—destroyed pieces of me I might never recover—but I didn’t want him dead.
Not like this.
Not after he had thrown himself over me and taken those bullets.
Time blurred. Minutes? Hours?
I couldn’t tell anymore.
I only knew I kept stealing glances toward the incubator, just enough to remind myself my son was still fighting.
Each tiny rise and fall of his chest felt like a quiet victory.
A small rebellion against the freezing room where we had both been condemned during labor.
Every few moments my eyes flicked back to the corridor, waiting for Renzo to appear with news—good or devastating, I had no way of knowing.
The uncertainty twisted like a knife in my gut.
Before the fear could swallow me whole, footsteps approached.
Soft. Measured. Controlled.
I lifted my head.
A senior nurse stood at the entrance of the alcove, dressed in pale blue scrubs.
Her expression was calm, warm, but something in her eyes made my chest tighten with dread.
I could already imagine the words forming on her lips.
Vincenzo is dead.
“Mrs. Orsini?” she said gently.
“Tell me,” I rasped, my voice hoarse and trembling. “Is he alive?”
The nurse’s face softened further, a touch of wry humor warming her professional tone.
“He’s alive. Against all odds, actually.”
