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I’m struck speechless by his confession. I blink back the unexpected tears and swallow the lump in my throat.
Salvatore’s never been much for deep talk about how he feels. Though he’s become more conscious of these things throughout our relationship and makes an effort to ensure I understand how much he loves and cares for me—it’s still shocking when these moments occur.
“It’s dumb and sentimental,” he adds after a couple seconds, then shrugs. “I guess I’m becoming soft.”
“No, Jon,” I say with another difficult swallow. “It’s beautiful. You’re right. And not just what you said, but you being here, being the support I need. You have cared for me every moment, and made me feel like I could do what I am. Even as scared and in pain as I was, I knew it would be okay in the end because you were by my side, holding my hand.”
The intensity charged in his gaze lessens for something gentler.
Pure affection.
He leans over and kisses me on the mouth. “It’s very important to me you’re cared for. That’s my job.”
“Feeding me ice chips,” I tease.
“Rubbing your back and wiping sweat off your brow. Letting you bruise my hand as you squeezed it so hard.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “It’s only fair we both felt pain.”
“You realize we still haven’t chosen a name?”
“We should make him a junior.”
He shakes his head. “No Salvatores. No Jonathans.”
“But we want some of you and some of me.”
“That’s right. Something that could represent both of us.”
I lay back against the pillows and stroke our baby boy’s matted hair. He sleeps so peacefully once he’s fed. He clings to my chest with his tiny fists balled up and his head turned to the side, his eyes closed and mouth puckered.
The name comes to me at random.
“What about Dominic?” I ask. “It can be Italian… but it starts with a D like my name.”
“Dominic,” he repeats slowly, giving it some thought.
“We can call him Dom for short.”
Salvatore lets a slow grin start at the corners of his mouth. “Dominic Mancino has a nice sound to it.”
“Dominic Jonathan Mancino,” I correct.
“Phi…”
“Jon, he’s your baby boy. Jonathan comes from your Crotone side, correct?” I ask, reaching for his hand. “You won’t be paying homage to Lucius in any way.”
…which was his reason for vetoing any attempt I made at making our baby boy a junior.
More than understandable considering what Lucius had put him through. From what Salvatore had been told by his mother, Stefania, Lucius had chosen his name, wanting to ensure she didn’t name him after his biological father, Ivan Volchok.
“Dominic it is,” he says. “That’s the name.”
We’re indulging in another quick sweet kiss when the nurses on staff walk in and inform me it’s time for a checkup and bath.
Salvatore takes Dominic and holds him snugly in his arms as I’m led away by the nurses into the bathroom.
“Your iron levels are very low,” one of the nurses informs me once I’m bathed and changed into a new gown. “But don’t worry, postpartum anemia is very common among women. You lost a little more blood than usual, and you were already on the cusp during pregnancy.”
