At seven months pregnant, my water broke without warning, and the bleeding wouldn't stop. Blood soaked the sheets as panic swallowed the room. In the Family's entire medical operation, there was only one surgeon capable of saving my baby, the man every soldier trusted with his life and every grieving family trusted with their dead.
That man was my husband.
The doctors kept telling me there was still a chance. If Salvatore arrived in time, our child might survive.
I called him over and over until my fingers shook too hard to hold the phone. Every call went unanswered.
In the end, there was no choice.
They cut my baby from my body in a desperate attempt to save a life that was already slipping away.
But my child never drew a single breath.
When they wheeled me out of the operating room, numb from blood loss and grief, I saw the message Gemma had just posted to the Family's private social circle.
"I told Salvatore I've been so anxious ever since I got pregnant. He was worried about me, so he took me to the chapel to light a candle and pray for our baby's blessing."
Below the caption was a photograph.
Gemma stood beneath the candlelight with a radiant smile, one hand resting gently over her barely swollen belly. Beside her, Salvatore stood with his hands clasped in prayer, his expression solemn and devoted, as though nothing in the world mattered more than the child she carried.
A tear slipped silently down my cheek.
My heart shattered beyond repair.
She had only just conceived.
My baby had been fully formed, fighting for every second of life.
Yet while our child was dying, while I was bleeding onto an operating table and begging for him to come, my husband had chosen to kneel before the altar, praying for another woman's unborn child instead.
——
"It's too late..." His voice broke beneath the weight of defeat. "The baby's gone. There's no heartbeat."
The words crashed through me like thunder.
For a moment, my mind went completely blank.
The anesthesia still clouded my senses. Only moments earlier, I had felt them lifting my baby from my body. I had held onto that tiny thread of hope with everything I had.
How could my child already be gone?
"No..." My voice came out cracked and desperate. "Please... please save my baby. There has to be something else you can do. Please..."
The nurse swallowed hard and struck the soles of my baby's tiny feet again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Silence.
Not a cry.
Not a single breath.
The lifeless stillness shattered the last illusion I had been clinging to.
My vision blurred as tears flooded my eyes.
The surgeon slowly lowered the mask from his face, revealing eyes filled with helpless regret.
"I'm so sorry."
"You've just undergone an emergency C-section. You cannot cry right now. If your emotions become too intense, you could throw an embolism or start hemorrhaging again. If that happens..." He paused before finishing quietly, "we may lose you too."
A nurse who had known me for years gently squeezed my shoulder.
"Mrs. Moretti... please listen to him. You're still young. You and Mr. Moretti can have another baby someday. Right now, your life is what matters. Please... don't cry."
Another baby?
How could there ever be another child to replace the one I had already loved with my whole heart?
I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood, forcing every tear back into my eyes.
Using the last of my strength, I reached out and grabbed the surgeon's sleeve.
"Enzo..." My voice trembled violently. "Please... just one more time. Try to save my baby again. I'm begging you..."
Enzo closed his eyes for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh.
"The only surgeon in the Family capable of reopening a premature infant's lungs..." His voice grew hoarse. "is Salvatore."
"He isn't here."
"Without him... none of us can save your child."
Every trace of color drained from my face.
It felt as though someone had dumped a barrel of ice water over me, freezing every drop of blood in my body.
Even breathing hurt.
Slowly, my fingers loosened and slipped from his sleeve.
Seven months pregnant.
My water had broken far too early, forcing the doctors to cut my baby from my body before either of us was ready.
When everything fell apart, the one person who could have saved our child had vanished.
I had called Salvatore again and again until my phone nearly died.
I sent message after message.
Nothing.
Every call rang unanswered.
Every text disappeared into silence.
I kept telling myself he had to be trapped in an emergency Family meeting.
A few days before leaving, he had kissed my forehead and told me business would keep him outside the territory.
I believed him.
I believed every word.
Until only hours ago.
Gemma had posted a message that spread through every Family parlor.
"I've been so anxious ever since I got pregnant. Salvatore was worried about me, so he took me to the chapel to light candles and pray for our baby's blessing."
The photo beneath the message felt like a knife driven straight through my heart.
Gemma stood beneath the candlelight with a soft, radiant smile, one hand resting protectively over the barely noticeable curve of her stomach.
Beside her stood my husband.
His hands were clasped tightly in prayer.
His eyes were lowered with quiet devotion.
Every ounce of tenderness that should have belonged to our child had been given to hers.
A sharp, crushing pain exploded inside my chest, as though someone had thrust a blade between my ribs and slowly twisted it.
I struggled to breathe.
The air refused to reach my lungs.
Gemma had grown up alongside Salvatore in the old days, their families bound by blood and loyalty to the Falcones.
But somewhere along the way, his concern for her had crossed every boundary a husband should have respected.
Whenever I questioned it, he always looked at me with irritation.
"You know her husband is one of the Family's soldiers. He's constantly running shipments at the docks and spends months away from home."
"She's alone."
"Now she's pregnant."
"How could I not look after her?"
He always made it sound as though I were the unreasonable one.
Even after I became pregnant with his child, Gemma remained his first priority.
Always.
Without exception.
If some rare herbal tonic arrived through the Family's channels in the middle of the night, he would wake me from a deep sleep just to have it delivered to Gemma before sunrise.
If she mentioned craving something, he would personally leave our dinner untouched to bring it to her.
If she so much as frowned, he was already at her doorstep.
Meanwhile, I had spent months convincing myself that this was simply who Salvatore was.
Kind.
Responsible.
Protective.
Only now, lying on an operating table with my child already gone, did I finally understand.
His tenderness had never been divided between us.
It had always belonged to Gemma first.
