Page 100 of Cage the Storm
“Sure, you weren’t.” Then she’s out again. I count her breaths, just to make sure she doesn’t leave me.
Five hundred and sixty-three later, a nurse stands in the doorway. “The baby needs?—”
“Later.” I don’t move.
Luna has a long road ahead of her, but this? Her breath on my cheek? It’s a start. And the heart monitor’s continual beep is music to my ears. Luna sleeps fitfully beside me, her face turned toward mine, and I drink her in.
I’m fixated on the IV line that trails from her arm, pumping blood into her veins. The dark and twisted side of me finds this ironic, how much life she needs now, after how much I’ve taken. I tell myself those men were far from innocent. That I was doing what had to be done. But maybe this… maybe this is the price. Maybe the universe finally decided to make it personal.
When her eyes snap open, they’re lucid, cutting through the morphine haze. She doesn’t ask where she is. She doesn’t need to. Her gaze darts to the empty bassinet the nurses wheeled in hours ago, a taunting symbol of what’s missing.
“Where is he?” Her voice is hoarse but ferocious.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled to keep them from shaking. “Nursery. They’re monitoring him.”
“Bring him. Now.”
Her command isn’t up for debate. I could refuse. Should refuse. The doctor warned that stress could lead to a relapse. That her body’s still teetering between recovery and collapse. But denial has never worked with Luna. She’ll crawl out of this bed and go get him herself.
“Don’t move or I’ll handcuff you to the rails.”
Her laugh is a dry rasp. “You can try.”
I wanted to call the nursery to bring him, but she insisted I get him myself. She said something about bonding with my son, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing since I feel so disconnected after everything that’s happened.
The nursery reeks of disinfectant and citrus, but beneath it all, the sweet scent of new life. A row of bassinets line the wall, with swaddled shapes of all sizes. The nurse tenses when I approach; her grip tightens on the clipboard. She’s young, mid-twenties, her scrubs dotted with cartoon teddy bears.
“Caputo,” I say, and she flinches like I slapped her.
The baby’s smaller than I remember, his face pinched and red beneath a blue striped hat. When the nurse passes him to me, he feels weightless. But his eyes open as I adjust my hold, blue and unblinking, and something primal twists in my chest.
“He’s been fussy,” the nurse murmurs. “Wouldn’t take the bottle.”
I ignore her, patting his bottom as I walk back to Luna’s room. His heartbeat thrums against my palm, and I misstep when he grabs my finger. My son.
Luna’s arms are already outstretched the moment I enter the room. Without hesitation, she loosens the swaddle when I place him in her arms. Inspecting every inch of him. Her fingertips trace the faint bruise on his temple from the forceps, and her mouth tightens.
“They hurt him,” she snarls.
“He’ll never remember, and you’re both alive. That’s what matters.”
She doesn’t lecture me, since she’s focused on the baby’s face as he nuzzles into her chest. When he latches onto nothing, his tiny mouth working in frustration, she lets out a sound I’ve never heard from her—half laugh, half sob. “You’re impatient,” she whispers. “Just like your father.”
I twitch uneasily, the reference to father clawing at old wounds. My own father’s face flashes—cold with a belt buckle glinting in the dark. I force it away. “We need to pick a name. Before the paperwork arrives.”
Luna’s thumb brushes the baby’s cheek. “Your grandfather’s name. Marcello.”
“No.” The rejection is automatic. Marcello died choking on his own blood, betrayed by his men.
Her gaze flicks up, challenging. “Then you choose.”
They say a name shapes who you become, how you see yourself, how the world sees you. It’s more than an identity. It’s a single word that will define every battle he’ll fight. I step closer, studying the baby’s features. His stubborn brow. The delicate slope of his nose.
“Sandro,” I say finally.
Luna stills. “Short for Alessandro?”
“Sandro. Just Sandro.”
