I kiss her once more, slower this time, lingering before I pull back. “One day,” I tell her quietly. “You’ll say it. And I’ll be here when you do.”
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t look away either.
I let my hand rest on her stomach, feeling the faint swell of our future. For now, this is enough, the fight and the fire binding us, even if the words remain unsaid.
26
LILIANA
It begins with a scratch at the back of my throat and a heaviness in my limbs that I pretend not to notice, and it turns my thoughts sluggish and hazy.
By the time morning comes, my head aches and my body aches worse. Giovanni notices before I can hide it. He takes one look at me over breakfast, his fork pausing midair, and orders me back to bed as if I am a child who has broken some unspoken rule.
I protest, but it is useless. Within an hour, the curtains in our bedroom are drawn, a tray of tea appears on the nightstand, and Giovanni has appointed himself my jailer.
He sits beside me, checking my temperature every few minutes with the back of his hand, calling for soup, adjusting the blankets as though the fabric itself could cure me. His attention is relentless, suffocating and tender all at once.
By mid-afternoon, the entire house knows I am unwell. Alba arrives with a pot of broth and a string of reassurances in rapid Italian. Camilla follows, her arms full of fresh linens, insisting the bed must be changed so I can rest properly.
Even Tomasso lingers at the doorway, awkward in his concern. Dario would be here, were he not on a mission Giovanni sent him on. Maria hovers too, worry lines furrowed on her forehead.
It is in the middle of all this fuss that the truth slips out.
Giovanni says he wants to go bring the tea the doctor recommended for pregnancy, and Alba’s head snaps up. Her eyes widen, and then she is smiling in a way that fills the whole room. The news spreads before I can stop it.
The first person to reach me is Maria. She rushes in, her dark eyes wide and shining, her hands finding mine instantly.
“Liliana…” She doesn’t finish, her voice catching. She bends over me, kissing my cheek, murmuring blessings in a voice that trembles with happiness.
I squeeze her hands, touched more than I can say. She'd gotten me that kit, and even though she knew what it was, she didn't question me about it. I didn't tell her the outcome because I waswaiting for the right time, and also because I felt like telling her would jinx the newfound happiness I have with Giovanni.
But she doesn't seem to mind that I didn't tell her. She's not angry. There's only happiness that radiates off her as she smothers me. She has been beside me through every quiet moment, every storm, and now she looks as though this news is her own to celebrate.
Her smile doesn’t fade even as Alba claims her place at my bedside, touching my hair as if I am still a child. Camilla offers congratulations, softer and more sincere than I expect, and Tomasso nods once, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
The room feels warmer somehow, thick with voices and affection. I try to smile back, though my head is heavy and my skin is too warm. A part of me wishes I could have kept it to myself a little longer, just for us. This was not how I imagined everyone finding out.
That night, fever blurs the edges of everything. Sleep comes fitfully, and with it, a fever dream that claws at my heart. In it, I'm holding a baby—our baby. He's small and perfect, but his eyes are distant. When I speak his name, there is no reaction. I call again, louder, my voice shaking, but still there is nothing. He's unable to hear my voice or form his own.
He has my ailment, my silence, my isolation. The weight of it crushes me, a fear I’ve never voiced taking shape in the haze. I wake gasping, my cheeks wet, the dream’s grip lingering as I clutch the quilt, my heart pounding.
Giovanni is there instantly, brushing the hair from my forehead, his expression sharp with worry, murmuring soothing words, but I can’t shake the terror, the image of our child trapped in my own struggles.
I sign frantically, my hands trembling. The baby. It cannot hear me. It cannot speak. Get the doctor. I need a scan. Now.
His brows draw together, his hand cupping my face, his voice calm but firm. “It was only a dream. You need to get better first, cara. Rest.”
I shake my head, my hands moving faster, insistent. No. I need to know he's okay. Please.
The dream’s shadow clings, and I can’t let it go, not until I see proof our child is whole.
He tries to soothe me, tells me I should rest first, that the fever is making my thoughts spiral. But I keep signing it, over and over. Please. Please. Please.
He hesitates, his jaw tight, but the desperation in my eyes must sway him, because he nods, pressing a kiss to my forehead before stepping out to make the call.
The doctor arrives within the hour, his bag heavy with equipment, his demeanor calm despite Giovanni’s hovering.
I lie back, the fever now cooling off, as he sets up a laptop and explains it is for the transmission of the portable ultrasound he brought with him.
