Chapter 9 - OUR SONThe drive to the hospital took twenty-two minutes.
Dante believed it took twenty-two years.
He sat beside me in the back seat while an FBI driver ignored several traffic laws with official assistance.
Every contraction made Dante look progressively more terrified.
I almost laughed.
"You've dealt with kidnappers better than this."
"I'm aware."
"You look like you're going to faint."
"I'm considering it."
"Don't."
"I won't."
Another contraction hit.
I squeezed his hand hard enough to punish several generations of Morettis.
At the hospital, doctors rushed me upstairs.
Thirty-one weeks.
Too early.
Far too early for my liking.
Medication slowed the contractions, but not enough.
Our son's heart rate began showing brief decelerations.
A neonatologist arrived.
Then another obstetrician.
Terms flew around the room.
Prematurity.
Respiratory support.
NICU.
Possible C-section.
Dante stood near my shoulder wearing blue hospital scrubs.
His eyes never left mine.
"I'm scared," I whispered.
He kissed my forehead.
"So am I."
It was the first time I could remember hearing him admit those words.
Not "concerned."
Not "prepared."
Scared.
Human.
The doctors gave us another hour.
Then my son's heart rate dropped again.
My obstetrician made the decision.
"We need to deliver."
Everything accelerated.
Operating room.
Bright lights.
Cold air.
Pressure.
Voices.
Dante beside me.
I kept thinking about the nursery at Bellavista.
Silver stars.
Blue walls.
The rocking chair.
Please let him see it.
Please.
At 3:46 a.m., our son entered the world weighing three pounds, eleven ounces.
For one terrifying moment, there was no cry.
Then a thin, furious sound filled the room.
I started sobbing.
Dante did too.
He didn't even pretend otherwise.
"He's mad," I whispered.
"Good."
Our son was taken to the NICU.
Respiratory support.
Monitoring.
Tiny tubes that made my heart ache every time I saw them.
But he was stable.
Strong for his gestational age.
The neonatologist used the word "encouraging."
It became my favorite word in the English language.
We named him Jonathan Gabriel Moretti.
Jonathan for my father.
Gabriel because Dante's grandfather had carried the name.
Two families.
One child.
A new beginning, if we were brave enough to make it one.
For the next five weeks, the outside world became background noise.
Samuel Price was indicted on federal fraud charges and later charged at the state level in connection with my father's death.
Victor Kane faced fraud, conspiracy, kidnapping, arson-related charges, and enough additional counts that Emma jokingly said prosecutors needed extra paper.
Craig Danner agreed to cooperate.
Several accountants, notaries, and intermediaries accepted plea agreements.
Frozen assets worth more than eighty million dollars were recovered.
Courts voided the fraudulent transfer involving Bellavista.
The estate had never legally left the Bennett trust.
Neither had the Brooklyn properties.
But none of those victories mattered as much as Jonathan gaining four ounces.
Or breathing without assistance.
Or finally learning to take a bottle.
Dante and I lived in a strange emotional country during those weeks.
Not divorced.
Not fully reconciled.
Married on paper.
Careful in reality.
We spoke more honestly than we had in eight years.
Sometimes the conversations hurt.
That was probably why they mattered.
One night, while sitting beside Jonathan's incubator, Dante said, "I found an apartment."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"For me."
My chest tightened.
"Dante—"
"You said you don't know if the marriage survives."
"I remember."
"I'm not going to assume I get to return home because the crisis is over."
That was new.
The old Dante would have solved logistics first and emotions second.
"Where?"
"Manhattan."
"Big?"
"Two bedrooms."
"Two?"
He smiled slightly.
"In case my son visits."
I looked at Jonathan.
"You're really willing to move out?"
"If that's what you need."
"What do you need?"
The question surprised him.
He took his time.
"I need to become somebody you can trust again."
"You can't control whether I trust you."
"I know."
"You can only behave like someone trustworthy."
"I know that too."
I studied him.
"Therapy."
He blinked.
"What?"
"If we're going to try, we go to therapy."
"Okay."
"Real therapy."
"Yes."
"Not some executive coach who tells you communication means buying me a vacation."
That made him laugh.
"Agreed."
"No secret bank-security nonsense unless legally required."
"Agreed."
"No deciding what I can handle."
"Agreed."
"No dramatic legal filings at parties."
He winced.
"That one feels targeted."
"It is."
He looked at Jonathan.
"I deserve it."
A week later, the divorce petition was formally withdrawn.
Not magically erased.
Withdrawal did not repair trust.
But it created space.
Jonathan came home after thirty-eight days.
We didn't take him to Bellavista.
Not yet.
Repairs were underway.
Instead we went to a rented townhouse near the hospital.
Dante maintained the apartment he had leased.
For the first month, he slept there.
He visited every day.
Changed diapers terribly.
Learned to warm bottles perfectly.
Walked our son around the living room at three in the morning while humming off-key.
I watched.
Not because I was testing him.
Maybe because I was.
Then one snowy evening in February, I fell asleep on the sofa.
When I woke, Dante was sitting in the rocking chair with Jonathan asleep on his chest.
He looked exhausted.
Peaceful.
I stood in the doorway.
He noticed me.
"I was going to put him down."
"Don't."
I crossed the room.
Sat beside them.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I rested my head against Dante's shoulder.
His breathing stopped.
"Elena?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I wouldn't dare."
I smiled.
It was the first uncomplicated smile I'd given him in months.
We weren't fixed.
But maybe fixed was the wrong goal.
Maybe we needed rebuilt.
Like Bellavista.
Not pretending the fire never happened.
Keeping the foundation.
May you like
Replacing what couldn't be saved.
Strengthening what remained.
