“Given who the father is, perhaps my concerns were justified.”
That was when Giovanni finally entered the conversation.
“You knew nothing about me when you threatened her,” he said.
“You saw wet clothes, a cheap bag and no wedding ring.
You decided the rest.”
Marla opened her mouth.
“And now,” he continued, “you’re using my name to excuse what you did before you knew it.”
He did not step toward her.
He did not threaten her job.
His restraint frightened her more than any display of anger could have.
The administrator placed Marla on immediate leave pending an internal investigation.
She was escorted from the department, still insisting that everyone had misunderstood her.
As she passed me, she avoided my eyes.
I expected satisfaction.
I felt none.
Luca was still behind a glass door, and no apology could lower his fever.
The hours that followed blurred together.
Dr.
Sullivan updated us after the procedure.
The initial findings suggested meningitis, but the exact cause remained uncertain.
Luca would continue receiving antibiotics until bacterial infection could be ruled out.
Giovanni called no one except his physician, who confirmed details about his family’s medical history.
He sent his men away from the hospital entirely after security complained about the vehicles gathering outside.
He stayed in the same plastic chair beside me.
At three in the morning, a nurse brought coffee.
Giovanni handed mine to me without asking how I took it.
Black with one sugar.
He remembered.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said.
He looked through the glass.
“I’ve already missed seven months.”
Near dawn, Luca’s fever began to fall.
The change was small—less than a degree—but I cried when the nurse showed me the number.
Giovanni closed his eyes and pressed his hands together beneath his chin.
The laboratory results arrived later that morning.
Luca had viral meningitis rather than the more dangerous bacterial form.
He would still need close observation, fluids and several days in the hospital, but Dr.
Sullivan expected a full recovery.
My body folded with relief.
Giovanni caught my shoulders before I reached the floor.
For one second, I leaned against him the way I had during our marriage.
Then I stepped back.
Relief did not erase fifteen months of fear.
It did not repair our divorce or transform Giovanni into a safe man.
It only gave us the chance to make different choices while our son was still alive to benefit from them.
That afternoon, Giovanni asked for a private conversation.
We stood near the window while Luca slept.
“I want a paternity test,” he said.
The request stung, though I understood it.
“He is yours.”
“I believe you.
The test protects him legally and prevents anyone from challenging what comes next.”
“And what comes next?”
“I become his father.”
I crossed my arms.
“You don’t get to arrive in a helicopter and take control of his life.”
