Giovanni’s men rotated outside the room, never entering unless asked. Marco brought coffee no one drank. A woman named Valentina arrived at dawn with dry clothes for me, selected in my size with unnerving accuracy. Soft gray sweatpants, a sweater, socks, a raincoat.
“I don’t need—”
Giovanni looked at me from beside the window. “Please.”
Just that.
Please.
I took the clothes.
In the family restroom, I changed slowly, my body shaking from exhaustion. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman looking back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair tangled from rain. A mother trying not to fall apart because a baby in the next room needed her whole.
When I returned, Giovanni was sitting beside Luca.
He had one hand resting on the mattress near our son, close enough to comfort but not crowd. He was speaking Italian under his breath.
I stopped in the doorway.
His voice was softer than I remembered it ever being.
Not the commanding voice used in boardrooms or the dangerous calm I had heard when men came to our house at midnight. This was a voice from somewhere older. A voice that belonged to kitchens, lullabies, childhood.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
He looked up.
“A prayer my grandmother used to say when children were sick.”
“You pray?”
“Badly.”
I almost smiled.
He looked back at Luca. “But she was very convincing. I am hoping influence carries across generations.”
The almost-smile became real for half a second.
Then faded.
Because grief and fear always returned when the room grew quiet.
At ten, Dr. Sullivan asked us to step into a consultation room while nurses performed another check. I didn’t want to leave Luca, but the nurse promised she would call immediately if he stirred.
The consultation room was small, with a round table, four chairs, a box of tissues, and a framed print of a sailboat that seemed painfully optimistic.
Giovanni closed the door behind us.
The silence changed.
Away from Luca’s monitors, we were no longer only parents beside a hospital bed. We were ex-husband and ex-wife again, standing among everything unsaid.
He spoke first.
“Tell me about him.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “Now?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate, almost desperate.
I sat.
Giovanni sat across from me, but not too close.
I told him Luca was born during a thunderstorm. That he hated peas but loved sweet potatoes. That he had one dimple in his left cheek. That he slept with his fists tucked beneath his chin. That he laughed whenever I sneezed and cried when the vacuum ran. That his first word had not arrived yet, but I was fairly certain he was considering “duck” because of the yellow bath toy he refused to release.
Giovanni listened to every word as if I were reading a sacred text.
When I finished, his eyes were wet.
He did not wipe them.
“I missed all of that,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You chose that.”
“Yes.”
He flinched, but I would not soften the truth for either of us.
“And you know why I chose it,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “I left that world.”