Chapter 7: The Espositos II

Valentina POV

"The clinic is two kilometers away," he said, his voice loud and harsh in the small kitchen. "Can you walk?"

I looked up at him, disbelieving. Another wave of pain was already beginning to tighten across my abdomen, sharper than the last. "I'm in labor, Franco."

"That's not an answer," he replied coldly. "Can you get yourself down the road, or can't you?"

I didn't have the breath to argue. I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth, and focused entirely on surviving the pressure building in my core. When the peak of the contraction finally passed, I used the edge of the kitchen counter to pull myself up to my feet. My knees were shaking so badly I could barely keep my balance. I leaned heavily against the counter, panting.

"I'll walk," I said, looking him dead in the eye.

Franco gave a short, single nod, completely unfazed. "Marta will go with you."

Marta came back into the room holding her thick woolen coat. She didn't offer me her arm to lean on. She didn't ask if the pain was manageable, and she didn't check to see if I could stand straight. She simply pulled the coat over her shoulders and walked directly past me toward the front door.

"Come on," she said, her hand already on the brass doorknob. "Let's move before it gets dark outside."

The walk to the village clinic took forty agonizing minutes.

Under normal circumstances, the flat gravel road would have taken fifteen, but every few hundred meters, the world would narrow down to nothing but pain. I had to stop three separate times right there on the dirt shoulder, bending over double with my hands on my knees, trying to force oxygen into my lungs while my body tore itself apart.

Each time I stopped, Marta stopped too. She didn't come near me. She didn't pat my back or tell me I was doing well. She just stood five paces ahead of me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest against the chilly wind, staring off into the grey olive groves. She said absolutely nothing.

When we finally reached the small, weathered concrete building at the edge of the village, Marta didn't follow me up the steps. She stopped at the bottom of the walkway and reached into the deep pocket of her coat, pulling out a small, tied canvas sack. She held it out to me.

"What's this?" I asked, my voice weak as I held onto the rusted handrail of the clinic porch.

"Some clothes," she said, her eyes fixated on the gravel line near her shoes. "For the baby. Old things from my sister's house." She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Franco told me to bring you here. So I brought you."

"Thank you, Marta," I said, genuinely relieved to have anything at all for the child.

"Don't thank me." She finally snapped her gaze up, her dark eyes locking onto mine with total, unyielding coldness. "Just have the baby and come back as soon as you're able. The kitchen floors still need sweeping, and the laundry is piling up."

She didn't wait for a reply. She turned on her heel and began walking back down the road toward her house, her small figure quickly disappearing into the evening shadows.

The village midwife was a small, compact woman with thick grey hair tied back in a neat bun and incredibly steady hands.

She took one look at my pale face, the sweat soaking my collar, and the way I was leaning against the clinic’s small front desk. Without asking for paperwork or money, she immediately grabbed my arm and led me down a narrow corridor into a small, plain room in the back. There was a metal cot, a single wooden stool, and the sharp, clean smell of antiseptic.

"You're alone?" she asked, helping me lay back onto the thin mattress.

"Yes," I breathed out.

"The father?"

"He's not coming." My voice didn't waver. "He doesn't know."

The midwife didn't press for details. In a village like this, she had likely seen every version of a broken story. She just gave a sharp, understanding nod and immediately began checking my vitals, her hands moving with quick, practiced efficiency.

"I'm Rosalba," she said, adjusting a clean sheet over my legs. "And you are?"

"Valentina," I said, gasping as another massive contraction began to build.

"Okay, Valentina." Rosalba pressed her palm firmly against the high swell of my stomach, feeling the muscle harden like rock beneath her fingers. "You're already fully dilated. This is going to happen very fast."

She wasn't lying. Within minutes, the pain escalated into something completely primitive. It was unlike anything I had ever imagined—a tearing, burning, endless pressure that seemed to radiate from the very center of my bones. It was so intense it stripped away everything else; for long stretches of time, I forgot the Espositos, I forgot the small room, I even forgot my own name. There was only the white-hot heat of the room and Rosalba's calm, steady voice guiding me through the dark.

"Push, Valentina," she commanded, her grip firm on my knee. "Now. With the next wave."

I gripped the edges of the metal cot and pushed with every ounce of strength I had left in my body. I buried my face into the thin, rough clinic pillow, screaming into the fabric so the sound wouldn't echo out into the quiet village streets. I fought against my own skin, forcing the pain downward, feeling like I was splitting in half.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of noise and heat, there was a sudden, violent release.

A wave of absolute silence washed over the room.

A second later, a sharp, loud cry cut through the quiet.

Matteo came into the world with his eyes wide open, his tiny fists clenched tight against his chest. He was red-faced, covered in fluids, and already fighting the air around him.

Rosalba quickly wiped him down with a clean towel, tied the cord, and placed him directly onto my bare chest.

The moment his skin touched mine, the freezing chill of the clinic room seemed to vanish. I wrapped both of my arms around his small, squirming body, pulling him against me so tightly I was instantly terrified I might break his fragile ribs. My chest heaved as I tried to calm my breathing.

"Hello," I whispered, my voice cracking into a ragged sob against his damp skin. "Hello, little one."

He stopped crying for a brief second, his head tilting up slightly. He looked straight at me. His eyes were a deep, intense dark brown—the exact same shade as my own. But as I looked closer at his tiny, wrinkled face, my breath caught in my throat. His jawline was sharp, even now. The stubborn set of his chin, the distinct shape of his mouth—that belonged to someone else. It belonged to the man in Florence who had thrown me out into the rain.

A cold shudder went through me, but I didn't let go. I pressed my lips firmly against the soft, warm curve of my son's forehead and closed my eyes, shutting out the rest of the world.

You are the only reason, I thought, the realization settling deep into my chest like iron. Everything I do from this exact second onward is for you. I will build something out of this dirt, and no one will ever hurt us again.