“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“Were you alone?” he asked.
The question was quiet.
“No,” I said. “Not always. Nora helped. My neighbor Mrs. Bell brought soup. A nurse from the clinic taught me how to swaddle because Luca screamed every time I tried. There were kind people.”
His face softened with gratitude and pain. “Good.”
“But at night,” I admitted, “yes. I was alone.”
He absorbed that.
“I should have been someone you could call before tonight.”
“Yes.”
“I want to become that.”
I closed my eyes. “Giovanni—”
“Not for you,” he said quickly. “Not like that. I have no right to ask anything from you. But for him. And if you allow it, for the parts of your life that need help carrying weight.”
I opened my eyes.
The old Giovanni would have said, I will fix this.
This man said, If you allow it.
That difference frightened me more than arrogance because it made hope possible, and hope had once nearly ruined me.
“I don’t know how to trust you,” I said.
“Then don’t start with trust. Start with rules.”
That sounded like him.
I almost smiled again.
“Rules?”
“Yes. Written. Legal. Clear. Where Luca lives. Who sees him. Security that you approve. No men following you without your consent. No decisions made over your head. No private retaliation. No contact with my family until you choose it.”
“Your family?”
His expression closed slightly.
“My mother will know by morning.”
A new fear entered me.
I had met Isabella Moretti only twice during our marriage. She was elegant, devout, and terrifying in the quiet way of women who had survived by understanding every room before entering it. She never insulted me. She never raised her voice. But once, at dinner, she touched my wrist and said, “The Moretti name protects what belongs to it.”
At the time, I thought it was affection.
Later, I wondered if it was warning.
“She can’t come near him,” I said.
Giovanni nodded immediately. “Not without your permission.”
“You didn’t even argue.”
“I am trying to learn.”
The hallway lights hummed above us.
At midnight, Giovanni’s attorney arranged a temporary written agreement at my request. It was simple: I remained Luca’s sole residential parent until formal family court proceedings. Giovanni would have supervised hospital access with my consent. No public announcement. No photographs. No private security assigned to me without mutual agreement. All threats would go through law enforcement.
He signed first.
Without hesitation.
When he handed me the pen, our fingers brushed.
Memory moved between us.
A vineyard in Tuscany. His hand at the small of my back. The first time he told me he loved me, not in English, but in Italian, because he said the words belonged closer to his bones that way.
Then another memory.
A locked study door.
A whispered warning from a driver.
Blood on his cuff.