She hadn't spoken his name out loud since they buried him.
Luciano.
She couldn't say it.
Not without tasting blood behind her teeth and salt on her lips.
The world thought Luciano Valeri died a monster — a mafia god who fell to bullets and betrayal.
But Amethyst knew the truth.
He died a father.
He died protecting them.
He died before he ever got to hold them.
And that was a kind of pain no one could prepare her for.
—
The contractions came in the middle of the night — sharp and deep, tearing through her like lightning.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just whispered, "It's time," and let the midwives rush her into the private clinic he'd built — the one he designed himself, saying "If anything ever goes wrong, you go here. Promise me, Amethyst."
She had.
And now she was here, surrounded by white walls and warm hands. But he wasn't. The chair he would've sat in was empty.
The pain of labor paled compared to that.
Hours passed like lifetimes. The lights blurred. Her breath came in broken gasps. At one point, she thought she saw him — standing in the corner, silent, proud.
But when she looked again, there was only shadow.
Finally — the cries came.
First, the boy.
A scream loud enough to shake heaven.
The nurse smiled. "He's strong."
Amethyst didn't have the strength to answer. She was already falling again.
Then the girl.
Smaller. Softer. But fierce.
The moment their cries filled the air, Amethyst sobbed so hard the room spun.
They laid the babies in her arms, swaddled in white. One in each hand. A boy with dark hair and angry eyes. A girl with tiny fists and a quiet fire behind her gaze.
"Hello," she whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. "I've been waiting for you."
And then, for the first time since he died, she said his name.
"I named you Adrian, just like your father wanted. And you," she looked at the girl, "Serafina.
Her voice cracked.
"He would've loved you both so much."
She broke then, fully and completely.
Bent over their tiny faces, whispering words only a mother — and a widow — could know.
She didn't sleep that night.
She held them.
Rocked them.
Sang to them with a voice too hoarse to be music.
She watched the sunrise with their bodies tucked against her chest, and in the quiet light of morning, something shifted.
Grief stayed.
But so did purpose.
She would raise them in his image — but not in his shadow.
They would know his name, but not his fear.
And she would never, ever, let them feel like they were born in blood.
They were born in love.
In sacrifice.
In legacy.
And that was something worth living for.
Even if it shattered her every day.