7 Months Later. 9:47 AM. Manhattan General. L&D Suite 1.
Pain.
Not the knife-in-ribs pain. Not the bullet-graze pain.
Worse.
“Push, Mrs. Moretti!” Dr. Harris yelled. “I need you to push!”
“I AM PUSHING,” I screamed.
Dante’s hand was crushing mine.
His hand.
Because he was standing.
7 months. 2 years of PT crammed into 7. Titanium spine. Blood. Sweat. Screaming at 3 AM.
But standing.
“Dante,” I gasped. “If you pass out, I swear to God—”
“I’m not,” he said. Teeth gritted. Sweat on his forehead. From holding me up, not from his spine. “I walked here. I’m walking out. With them.”
Them.
Elena. Alessia.
38 weeks. 2 days.
Twins.
“One more,” Dr. Harris said. “Head’s crowning. Come on, Donna. You ended Sinaloa. You can do this.”
I bore down.
Screamed.
And the world sp
