Dawn broke, painting the sterile white walls of my hospital room in pale, watery shades of grey. I had been awake for hours, my body aching, my breasts uncomfortably full as my milk came in, a biological imperative that cared nothing for the fact that my baby was not in my arms. My belly was a hollow, empty space. I reached for my phone, my lifeline, and stared at the photos Isabella had taken. Sophia. My daughter. A tiny, perfect human in a plastic box, surrounded by a web of wires and beeping monitors. "Good morning, baby girl," I whispered to the screen. "Mommy's coming to see you soon."
A nurse came in, her smile kind but professional. "Mrs. Russo, how are you feeling?"
"When can I see her?" I asked, the only question that mattered.
"NICU visiting hours start at seven," she said gently. "I'll take you down in a wheelchair."
The NICU was a hushed, sacred space, filled with the quiet hum and beep of machines that were keeping these tiny, fragile lives tethered to the world. After scrubbing my hands raw and donning a paper gown, a nurse led me to Sophia's station. There she was. She was even smaller than I remembered from the brief, fleeting moment I'd held her. But she was breathing on her own, a good sign, the nurse told me.
"Can I touch her?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Yes, carefully," the nurse said, opening a small porthole in the side of the incubator.
I reached in, my hand shaking, and gently touched Sophia's tiny, perfect hand. Her fingers, as delicate as flower petals, reflexively curled around my index finger, a grip so surprisingly strong it made me gasp. A sob broke from my chest. "Hi, baby," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "It's Mommy. I'm so sorry Daddy isn't here. But he loves you so much. So, so much."
I sat there for an hour, my finger held captive by my daughter's tiny hand, talking to her, telling her about her father, about our home, about the world waiting for her. The neonatologist made his rounds, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "She's doing well for thirty-two weeks," he said. "She's a fighter. But she'll likely be here for four to six weeks. Premature babies need time to grow."
Four to six weeks. The timeline was a punch to the gut. Leaving her there was one of the hardest things I had ever done. I looked back at her, my perfect daughter in her plastic box, and my heart ached with a fierce, primal love.
Meanwhile, across town, the trial was resuming. Dante was brought into the courtroom, looking like he hadn't slept in a year. "How are you?" Chen asked him quietly.
"Don't ask stupid questions," Dante growled.
"I have something for you," Chen said, pulling a small envelope from his briefcase. "From last night."
Dante's hands trembled as he took the envelope and opened it. The photos of Sophia. It was the first time he had seen his daughter. His carefully constructed mask of indifference crumbled. His jaw clenched, his eyes grew wet, and a choked sound escaped his throat. "She's so small," he whispered, his voice thick with a pain I knew all too well.
"Five pounds, three ounces," Chen said softly. "And she's doing well."
Dante couldn't look away from the photos, his thumb stroking the image of her tiny face. "I should be there," he rasped. "I should be holding her."
The judge entered, and the day's proceedings began. Before calling the first witness, the judge looked at Dante. "Before we continue, Mr. Russo, the court would like to extend its best wishes on the birth of your daughter. Congratulations." It was the first kindness the judge had shown him, and Dante could only manage a tight, grateful nod, his throat too thick with emotion to speak.
"The People call Antonio Greco to the stand," the prosecutor, Amanda Pierce, announced.
Antonio entered the courtroom. He was thinner than I remembered, his eyes darting nervously around the room, refusing to meet Dante's gaze. He was sworn in, and the betrayal began.
"Mr. Greco, how do you know the defendant, Dante Russo?" Pierce asked.
"We worked together," Antonio said, his voice barely audible. "For twelve years."
"And what was the nature of that work?"
"We ran... criminal enterprises."
For the next hour, Antonio laid out the structure of Dante's organization, detailing weapons deals, territory disputes, and money laundering schemes. He spoke with the authority of an insider, his testimony a death by a thousand cuts. Dante sat impassively, his face a mask of stone, but I knew him. I could see the fury in the tight clench of his jaw, the white-knuckled grip he had on the photos of our daughter. He was thinking of her, of the life he was losing, the life this traitor was stealing from him.
"Mr. Greco," Pierce said, her voice sharp, "please tell the jury about the events of October 2019."
Antonio took a deep breath. "Dante ordered a hit on a man named Marco Santini. Santini was skimming from our operations. Dante told me to 'handle it.'"
"And what, in your world, does 'handle it' mean?"
"It means kill him," Antonio said, finally looking at Dante, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
"And did you?"
"Yes. On Dante Russo's direct orders."
A murmur went through the courtroom. This was it. The murder conspiracy charge, confirmed by a so-called eyewitness. I could feel the jury leaning away from us, their minds closing.
Dante wanted to lunge across the room, to wrap his hands around Antonio's throat. I could see it in the coiled tension of his body. Chen placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Stay calm," he whispered. "I'll destroy him on cross-examination."
"He's lying," Dante hissed back.
"I know," Chen said. "But we have to prove it."
During the lunch recess, Dante was allowed a phone call. He called my hospital room. Isabella answered. "She's in the NICU with Sophia," she told him.
"Don't get her," he said, his voice heavy. "Let her be with our daughter. Just... tell me how she is. Really."
"She's exhausted, Dante. And scared. But she's so strong. And Sophia... she's beautiful. She looks just like you."
"I know," he said, his voice cracking. "Chen showed me the photos. It's not the same."
When I got back to my room, I called the jail immediately. "Dante? How are you? How was it?"
"Antonio is on the stand," he said, his voice flat. "He's testifying. He's burying me, Ella."
"Chen will fight it," I insisted.
"He's trying. But the jury believes him. I can see it in their faces." He paused. "I need to prepare you, Ella. I might be convicted. And if I am... Sophia needs you. You have to be strong for her."
"I'm trying," I sobbed. "But I need you."
"You're stronger than you know," he said, his voice filled with a fierce pride. "You brought our daughter into the world yesterday while I was useless in a cage. You don't need me. You're capable of anything."
"I do need you!" I cried. "We need you! So stop talking about convictions and fight! Fight for her! Fight for us!"
"I am," he swore. "But if things go wrong-"
"They won't," I cut him off. "I won't let them."
After the recess, Antonio's testimony continued, each word another nail in Dante's coffin. He painted himself as a victim, a man trapped by his fear of the monster, Dante Russo. "He once killed a man for simple disrespect," Antonio claimed, his voice filled with faux sincerity. "Shot him in his own club. I knew if I ever crossed him, I'd be next."
"Why did you finally come forward?" Pierce asked, leading him toward the grand finale.
Antonio's eyes filled with crocodile tears. "My daughter," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "She's eight. I looked at her one day and I realized, I don't want her growing up with a criminal for a father. I wanted to be better. For her."
The hypocrisy was staggering. He was using his own daughter as a shield, testifying to separate Dante from his daughter forever.
Chen rose for the cross-examination, his movements slow and deliberate. "Mr. Greco, you testified that you did all this for your daughter. Yet you committed these alleged crimes for years while she was growing up, profiting handsomely, I imagine?" He dismantled Antonio's story piece by piece, exposing his motives. "Isn't it true, Mr. Greco, that you only came forward after you yourself were arrested, facing thirty years in prison? Isn't it true that you are trading Mr. Russo's freedom for your own?"
Antonio stammered and denied, but the damage to his credibility was done. It wasn't enough, though. Chen knew it, and Dante knew it. The details Antonio had provided were too specific, too damning.
That evening, I was back in the NICU, holding Sophia against my chest for kangaroo care. Her tiny, warm body was a comfort and an ache all at once. "Your daddy is fighting for us," I whispered, my lips against her soft hair. "He's so brave, Sophia. Someday you'll meet him, and you'll see how much he loves you."
In his cell across town, Dante stared at the photos of the daughter he had never held, the daughter whose first day of life he had spent on trial for his own. His future, our future, was in the hands of twelve strangers. Tomorrow, the trial would continue. Tomorrow, we would fight again. But tonight, we were just a family torn apart, trying to survive until we could be whole again.