Bonus Chapter 2

Bonus Chapter 2
Lucia’s POV

If someone told me the most painful moment of my life would also be the most beautiful, I would’ve laughed in their face.

Now?

Now I was gripping the edge of Dante’s wrist so tightly he might never regain circulation….and I still didn’t care.

“Don’t just stand there like a statue!” I screamed, sweat sliding down my temple. “Do something!”

He blinked down at me, clearly fighting for composure, though the vein in his neck was twitching and his shirt was inside out, his hair looked like he’d run through a storm. “I am doing something,” he said too calmly. “I’m here. I’m being supportive.”

“Supportive?” I seethed. “You’re pacing like a caged lion and offering me water, Dante. I don’t need water. I need this child out of me!”

His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but the nurse glanced up from the monitor, cutting him off.

“She’s at nine centimeters. Almost time.”

Dante paled. Visibly.

I almost laughed if it weren’t for the fact that another contraction slammed into me like a truck.

I groaned, gripping the bed rail with one hand and his fingers with the other. He let out a hiss of pain.

“You’re breaking my hand,” he muttered.

“Good.”

He didn’t pull away. Not when I snapped, not when I cried, not even when I swore I hated him for doing this to me.

And I did say it.

At least twice.

But instead of flinching or biting back, he leaned in close and brushed his lips across my sweat-slick forehead. His voice was low. Gentle.

“Hate me all you want, if it means you get to hold him in your arms.”

That made my chest tighten.

Because this was Dante Romano. The man feared by entire cities. The man who killed with a flick of his fingers and slept with a gun under his pillow. And now? He was kissing my forehead like I was the most fragile thing he’d ever touched.

“I don’t hate you,” I whispered, breathless. “I just want him out.”

He chuckled then. A low, rough sound that shook his shoulders. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time blurred.

The room filled with nurses, a doctor, and harsh fluorescent light. And Dante didn’t leave my side. Not even when they told him he could. Not even when the nurse politely asked if he wanted to step out during the final push.

“I’m not leaving her,” he said. No hesitation. “Not even if the building catches fire.”

And he meant it.

So he stayed. And he saw everything. And for a man who’d witnessed gunfights, torture, and executions without flinching…

This nearly brought him to his knees.

His hand tightened in mine as I pushed. 

Every muscle in my body was on fire, my hips felt like they were being torn apart, my stomach was tight with pressure, and my lower back ached so badly I could barely think. It wasn’t just pain—it felt like a battle, like my body was being ripped open from the inside. 

The only thing that kept me grounded was Dante’s voice.

“You’ve got this, love. Just a little more. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Another contraction hit, and I cried out. My grip on his hand turned bone-crushing.

“I swear to God,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple, “you get him out, and I’ll buy you anything you want. I’ll fly you to Greece, Paris, Rome—anywhere. You want that damn beach house in Amalfi? It’s yours. Hell, I’ll build you your own island if that’s what it takes.”

I let out a broken laugh between breaths, too exhausted to speak, but the sound of his voice was all I needed.

He leaned in closer, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “Just a little more, baby. One more push. And he’s ours.”

Another push. Another scream.

And then—

The sound I never thought I’d love more than his voice.

A cry.

Loud. Sharp. Alive.

I wasn’t prepared for that sound, or for the sight of him. So small. So perfect. Like something carved out of a dream. My breath caught.

The doctor moved fast, holding him up briefly before placing him on my chest.

My arms were shaking and still covered in blood and life. I couldn’t even lift them properly. Every part of me felt shattered and hollowed out. But then I felt his warmth… this tiny, wrinkled weight on my chest, and somehow I found the strength to hold him.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until Dante brushed the tears off my cheeks.

“He’s here,” I whispered, staring down at the tiny bundle of wet hair and clenched fists on my chest. “Dante, he’s perfect.”

Dante didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

He stared at our son like he was looking at something holy…. like he couldn’t believe someone like him could be a father.

“Do you want to hold him?” I asked softly.

He blinked like he didn’t hear me at first. Then he nodded, slow and stiff, like he didn’t trust his own limbs.

One of the nurses hesitated before handing him the baby. Maybe it was the scar on his knuckles. Or the tension in his jaw. She probably didn’t know him, but she knew men like him.

The other nurse stepped in and guided the baby into his arms.

And that was it.

The second Enea settled against his father’s chest, Dante changed.

He held him like he was the only thing on earth that mattered. His big hands cradled that tiny body with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed.

“Hi,” Dante murmured to him. “I’m your dad. And no one—no one—will ever touch you.”

It was a promise. An oath.

Not just from a father but from a king swearing loyalty to his heir.

I watched him stroke the baby’s soft head, awe carved into every line of his face.

And then he looked at me. Just once.

And I saw it—the truth he didn’t need to say.

That I hadn’t just given birth to our son. I had given birth to the only thing that scared Dante more than losing me.

His greatest weakness. His greatest love.