I sit across from him and spoon a bit of marmalade onto my plate. My appetite’s been strange lately—ravenous one minute, queasy the next. This morning, it’s the latter. I take one bite of egg and excuse myself, murmuring something about needing a sweater. The hall feels longer than usual. The bathroom feels colder, especially the tile as my knees hit the ground and I worship the porcelain goddess yet again. It's been happening more frequently, and I know it can only mean one thing.
When I return to the kitchen, Vincenzo looks up the second I step into the doorway. His fork pauses midair.
“What is it?” he asks.
I sit down slowly. “I, uh… I missed my period.” My head stays down so he can't see the small smile I'm holding back. I bite my lip as he sets his fork down. I expect a dozen reactions. Questions. Worry. Disbelief. But what I get is silence as he studies me for a long moment, then leans across the table.
“Are you sure?” he asks me, and with his eyebrows raised like that, I can tell he is excited by the thought.
“I haven't tested yet, but it’s been long enough that I noticed, and it’s not like me.”
He reaches for my hand. His thumb brushes my knuckles as the grin stretches over his lips. "I'm going to be a father?" he asks, dipping his head, and I chuckle for a moment.
"I think so, yes…"
The ecstatic "Whoop!" he releases almost startles me, and then he stands, jubilantly hoisting me off the ground and spinning me around a few times. It's dizzying, and I have to cling to him when my feet touch back down on the cold tile.
When Enzo's lips cover mine, it's hot and passionate. He kisses me like the last few months have all been leading to this exact second. His hands frame my face firmly, and his mouth moves over mine with a hunger that sends heat curling through me. When we break apart, we’re both breathless.
But he doesn’t let me go. His forehead rests against mine. “You really think there’s a baby?” he asks, softer now, as if the first time I told him he didn't believe it and he needs to hear it over again to make sure it's real.
I nod slowly. “I do. I’ve never been late before like this.”
We just stay like that for a moment—chests touching, hearts in sync, like the storm we weathered never touched us at all. He wraps his arms fully around me and holds me to himself like he can already feel the change in the air, in my body, in us.
“I didn’t think life would look like this,” I murmur, pressing my cheek to his chest. “I thought if I survived, I’d have to spend the rest of it looking over my shoulder.”
He strokes my back. “No one’s going to touch you now.”
“And if I am pregnant?” I ask. “What then?”
His hand settles protectively at the small of my back. “Then we make space for that future. We find a bigger place. You let me build a nursery. I learn how to install car seats and argue with you about names.”
I laugh warmly. “You’d argue?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Only if you suggest something ridiculous. Like Zeus. Or Vito.” He tickles my side, and I squeal while pushing him away.
“Vito?” I wrinkle my nose. “You’re really going to take that risk?”
He leans in and kisses my temple. “We’ll figure it out. You and me. We always do.”
The music from the little Bluetooth speaker near the counter changes tracks, something lazy and warm drifting into the kitchen. He lifts an eyebrow. “Dance with me.”
“It’s nine in the morning,” I say, laughing.
He’s already pulling me toward the open space between the stove and table. “Then it’s as good a time as any.”
We sway together, barefoot on cold tile, my arms around his neck and his around my waist. He hums against my hair. I’m not thinking about the headlines, or the past, or the wreckage we climbed out of. I’m thinking about the way his thumb strokes my side. About how right it feels.
He leans back a little. “Alessia?”
“Mmm?”
“When we get married,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his voice, “your father’s walking you down the aisle.”
I blink at him. “First of all, is that a proposal?" I ask, snickering. Then I say, "What if he doesn’t want to?”
“Then I’ll go find him myself and convince him.” He grins. “Emilio can sulk in the corner and call him names. I don’t care.”
“You’re serious?”
He kisses me again, softer this time. “Dead serious. I don’t want a wedding without you walking toward me with the people who made you standing behind you. We’ll do it right.”
Tears press at the back of my eyes, but I don't let them fall. Somehow, this man understands the wordfamilymore than I ever have, and I have so much to learn from him.
Because this—this is what it means to choose a future. Not with perfect safety. Not with clean hands. But with open eyes and both feet planted, finally, on solid ground.
