Chapter 24 Chapter 24
LILY
The hospital room is too white. Too quiet, except for the slow, mechanical beep of the monitor beside me. I lie there, pale, weak, with Dante seated to my left, holding my hand like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded to this world. Bella is on my right, her eyes red and puffy, but she still manages to rub soothing circles on my arm.
I feel hollow.
Like everything inside me has been scraped out.
I stare at the IV drip. I count the drops.
But it doesn’t distract me from the pain—not the physical one, but the one in my chest, the one that’s shattering my heart all over again.
I lost him once.
And now, I’ve lost another part of him.
The door opens gently, and when I look up, the godfather enters. His usually strong posture is slower today, his shoulders a little heavier. His eyes meet mine and I see it there—grief. Real grief.
He walks toward me, his voice soft. “Lily.”
I try to sit up, but Dante gently presses me back against the pillow. The Godfather takes the chair beside Bella and looks at me like I’m something precious he couldn’t protect.
“I didn’t even know I was pregnant,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “After Sebastian’s death, everything changed. I… I ignored the nausea. Thought it was just the anxiety. The grief. I never stopped to think…”
My voice breaks, and the tears slip down before I can stop them.
“I would’ve taken care of myself better. I would’ve—”
But I can’t finish.
The Godfather’s eyes glisten, and he nods slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Lily. You’re just a girl who lost too much too fast.” He reaches forward and gently places his weathered hand over mine. “And I am so, so sorry.”
Bella sniffs and wipes her cheek. Dante keeps squeezing my hand like he’s reminding me I’m still here.
“I thought losing Sebastian was the worst thing,” I murmur, voice trembling. “But this… this broke me in a way I didn’t know was possible.”
There’s a silence. Not awkward, not heavy. Just quiet mourning.
The Godfather finally speaks again. “You’re not alone, Lily. You’ve become family. To all of us. And I swear to you, on Sebastian’s name, we’ll never leave you to face this world on your own.”
I close my eyes.
And for a moment—I let myself cry.
For the baby I’ll never hold.
For the man I never got to love long enough.
For the life that vanished in the blink of an eye.
LILY
The hospital feels like a blur now. Grief layered over grief. The loss still clings to my skin like cold rain that never dries.
When I return to the penthouse, it feels too big. Too silent. Too empty. His cologne still lingers on the collar of the shirt he left draped over the bathroom door. His watch sits where he last left it. His toothbrush is still beside mine.
It all feels like a museum of a man who was supposed to grow old with me.
I walk in slowly, drop my bag, and lean against the wall. For a few minutes, I just breathe. I have to remind myself I’m still alive.
The days blur into each other.
Some days I just sit by the window, watching the city move while I stand still. I don’t cry every day now. But sometimes it just happens—over coffee, in the shower, while folding one of his shirts I forgot to pack away.
Other days, Dante shows up.
He comes like clockwork—never too loud, never too gentle. Just right. He brings takeout or cooks in the kitchen like he owns the place. He even knows how I like my tea now: with one sugar, no lemon.
Tonight, he’s sprawled across the couch with my laptop open, helping me catch up on my late university assignments.
“You didn’t cite this article,” he points out, squinting at the screen, “Your professor will go full Sherlock on you.”
I glance at him from the kitchen counter. “I’ve been grieving, Dante.”
“You’ve also been sloppy,” he teases.
I crack a small smile. It’s the first one in a while. He grins like he’s won the lottery.
“Here,” he says, scooting over and patting the seat beside him, “Come fix this paragraph before I rewrite it with mob slang.”
I laugh—actually laugh—and take a seat next to him. He smells like coffee and something warm I can’t name. I glance at him as he scrolls through my Word doc with his brow furrowed.
“You’re kind of good at this,” I say, surprised.
He shrugs, smirking. “I did pass high school. Barely. And your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way.”
We work side by side. He doesn’t push me to talk. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He knows I’m not.
But he’s here. And that matters.
Later, I sit by the fireplace with a blanket around my shoulders. Dante’s cleaning up in the kitchen. He talks while he moves—mostly about nonsense. The news. Rocco's new dog. The Godfather’s weird obsession with lemon tea.
His voice fills the space. Makes it less empty.
I close my eyes and whisper into the quiet, “I miss you, Sebastian.”
No one hears me.
But I swear I feel something.
A breeze that didn’t come from the window.
A warmth across my skin.
Like maybe he’s still out there.
Somewhere.
And maybe, just maybe… this isn’t the end of our story.