I step through the door, the familiar scent of tomato, garlic, and rosemary filling the air as I take in the sight of Maria—barefoot and glowing—standing in front of the stove. She’s humming softly to herself, clearly lost in the rhythm of preparing dinner.
I’ve loved watching her body shift and change to grow our son over the past few months. Pregnancy looks stunning on her. She rubs her belly affectionately as she stirs whatever’s on the stove, a smile on her face.
Her head lifts and she shoots me a wide smile that’s almost blinding. “You’re home.”
My heart skips a beat seeing her like this—pregnant and radiant, a beautiful contrast to the chaos of the world outside. Coming home to this—to the estate—is always something I look forward to.
“Hey,” I greet her softly, my voice full of warmth, as I walk over and wrap my arms around her waist. She leans back into me, the curve of her belly pressing against my chest.
“Hey,” she replies, turning her head to look up at me. “How was your day?”
I chuckle, brushing my lips across her forehead. “Busy, but nothing I can’t handle. And you? How was your day?”
She gives a little shrug, her fingers dancing on the spoon as she stirs the pot. “Just the usual. A lot of quiet time, but I’ve been trying to get things ready for our little guy.” She lets out a soft, contented sigh.
There’s something sacred about this moment—just the two of us, suspended in quiet before the storm. In a world built on blood and strategy, this kitchen, this woman, this child—they are the only things that feel real.
“Crazy to think eight months has flown by like… nothing.”
I can feel her energy, the excitement in her words, and it lifts my own spirits. The anticipation of meeting our son, of finally holding him in my arms, is enough to make me feel like I’m walking on air. But I can’t escape the slight tinge of sadness I always feel when I realize that Daniele won’t be here to see his little brother.
I walk over to the stove to look at the pot she’s preparing. Never in a million years did I think I’d move back to the Davacalli estate—or be so… domesticated. She’s really slowed my life down in the best way possible.
“Do you need any help, amore?” I taste the sauce she has in the pot with a spoon, but when she doesn’t respond, I look up at her—and I pause. “Maria?”
Her body tenses, and her hand grips the edge of the counter. Her breath catches, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
“Maria?” I ask, stepping closer, my voice full of concern. “What’s happening?”
Before I can even process it, she doubles over in pain, a scream tearing from her throat. Her eyes widen, and she looks up at me, panic flickering in her gaze.
“My water just broke,” she says, breathless.
It’s like the world shifts beneath my feet. I don’t move for a second—I just stand there, trying to process her words.
Water breaking. Baby coming. She’s in labor.
“You’re in labor,” I say, almost too casually. But then it all clicks, and I’m panicking. “Oh—fuck. Okay. You’re in labor. Right. We’ve trained for this,” I mutter, half to myself. “Where’s the damn hospital bag…?”
“Matteo,” she breathes, her eyes shining with a mix of fear and excitement. “I need you to be calm. Because if you freak out, I’ll freak out—and I need to be zen when I push a human out of my vagina.”
“Okay, okay,” I stammer, my mind rushing as I scramble to grab her hospital bag from the corner by the door—thank the heavens my wife is a micromanager and prepares for things in advance.
Maria stands by the counter, breathing in and out through her mouth as she sways from side to side like her doula showed her. All those birthing classes, and I’m blanking on every single lesson.
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, my thoughts tumbling over each other as I try to stay calm. “We need to go. We need to get to the hospital. Now.”
Maria winces again, her hand gripping the counter, but she nods. “I know. Let’s go. He’s coming—I can feel him.”
I’m frantic as we rush to the car, my heart hammering in my chest. The roads blur as we speed toward the hospital, the sound of her labored breathing beside me grounding me. Her hand grips mine, squeezing with every contraction, and I squeeze back—my nerves tangled with pure, raw excitement.
When we pull up to the hospital, I don’t wait for the valet—I just rush inside, Maria at my side, the weight of her pregnancy anchoring me to the present.
We’re here. It’s happening.
Our son is coming.
OUR SON IS COMING.
They take her straight to a room, and I’m by her side every step of the way. The nurses move quickly, getting her set up on the bed, hooking her up to the monitors. My eyes stay fixed on her face. I’ve watched this woman stare down the barrel of a gun and hold strong—and now I’ll watch her bring new life into the world.
The last time I was in a situation like this, I was watching Daniele come into the world. And now, here I am again—with the one who brought meaning back into my life.
She’s scared—I can see it—but there’s something else in her eyes too: hope. Anticipation. She’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. She was born for this role.
“I’m here,” I whisper, brushing her hair back from her face, trying to comfort her, though I’m equally shaken. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m scared, Matteo,” she admits, her voice trembling slightly, but she forces a smile. Small beads of sweat dot her forehead as she tries to breathe in and out. “What if I can’t do this?”
I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. “You can. You’re stronger than you think. You’re incredible.”
The hours seem to fly by—or maybe they slow down, I can’t tell. All I know is that before long, the doctor is telling us that it’s time.
I stand at her side, gripping her hand, feeling her squeeze it in return with every push. I’m watching her—watching the strength in her face, in her body—as she brings our son into the world.
And I fall in love with her all over again.
I can hardly believe it’s happening.
This is real.
And then, after four hours of labor and six strong pushes, we hear it. A sound I will never forget for the rest of my life.
Our son’s cry—raw, pure, and full of life—pierces the air, and it takes everything in me to hold it together.
The nurse places him on Maria’s chest, and his cries instantly calm. I’m overwhelmed. I look down at his tiny face, the soft strands of black hair on his head, the little fingers that curl instinctively.
He’s perfect—just like his mother.
Maria’s tired eyes meet mine, and she smiles, her face flushed but radiant. “He’s here,” she whispers.
I glance down at our son again, overwhelmed by a love so deep it threatens to spill over. And then, we both know. We’ve been talking about names for months, trying to figure out which one fits best. But in this moment, there’s no hesitation.
“Antonio Daniele Davacalli,” Maria says softly, her voice full of emotion as she gazes down at him. “He should carry his brother’s name—and his uncle’s, too.”
I nod, my throat tight as I try to hold back the tears. “I love it,” I tell her, my voice thick with emotion. “It’s perfect. Antonio. Our perfect little boy.”
He blinks slowly, his tiny chest rising and falling.
And for a moment, the world outside this hospital room ceases to exist.
This—this is everything.
The quiet of the hospital room settles around us as we sit in the soft glow of the bedside lamp—the three of us, finally complete. Antonio is wrapped snugly in a blanket, his tiny fingers grasping at the air as if trying to touch everything at once. His little face, though scrunched from the world’s first tastes of reality, is a vision of pure innocence.
I will do whatever it takes to make sure this baby is safe and protected. Nothing will ever harm him in this world as long as I live.
Maria leans back into the pillows, exhaustion etched into her features, but there’s a soft smile playing on her lips. Her eyes are on Antonio, the love she feels for him overwhelming—and I can see the bond between mother and child forming in an instant.
“He looks so much like his Uncle Antonio—it’s almost uncanny,” I mutter, eyes fixed on his tiny face.
“I see it too,” Maria whispers, her voice full of wonder. “The name is fitting for him, I think. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now.”
I walk over to her and lean down to give her a gentle kiss on the lips. The exhaustion in her eyes softens.
“It’s perfect. You gave me a new life, Maria. Saying ‘I love you’ doesn’t even come close.”
She lets out a tired laugh, her hand coming to gently cup my cheek. “I love you, Matteo. I love you both.”
Just as the quiet begins to settle, my phone buzzes. Of course it does. Only one person would dare interrupt this moment.
“You can’t avoid him forever. He’s probably camped outside right now, waiting to come and meet him,” Maria laughs.
“Fine,” I sigh, swiping the screen and pointing the phone at a sleeping Antonio.
“He’s so freaking cute!” Valerio’s voice rings through the speaker. “Oh my God, he’s got hair—a freaking gorgeous baby.”
“Valerio,” my wife and I say at the same time.
“Oh, sorry. Dammit—I’m going to have to start being PG,” he laughs softly. “You did good, Maria. You did so good.”
I turn the phone to Maria, and she smiles through her exhaustion. “Thank you, Valerio. I presume you’re already in the waiting room?”
“Been here for almost three hours,” he says, beaming. “I’ll come up just now—need to grab my gift from the car first.”
Before we can say anything else, he hangs up. Maria and I exchange a smile. Aside from us, Valerio has been the most excited for Antonio to arrive.
“You hear that, son? Your crazy uncle is on his way up,” I coo at Antonio, who is now fast asleep in my arms.
“And we love him all the same,” Maria chuckles. “Antonio is already so loved.”
He is.
The future we never thought we’d have—right here in our arms.
The proof that love—real love—can rise from ashes.
Our son.
Antonio Daniele Davacalli.
