Omero picked up a forkful of greens and set it on my plate, his voice soft. "Just a few bites. The baby needs you to eat."
He looked so devoted. How could any of it be an act?
But I knew. All of it was a lie.
"I really can't..."
His patience snapped. "You won't eat, but the baby has to. Stop acting like a child!"
He seized my jaw, fingers digging in, and tried to force the food into my mouth. The grip was the grip of a man accustomed to making people do what he wanted. Not a husband's hand. A capo's.
I wrenched free, but I understood his resolve now.
Despair closed over me like water. I blinked back tears and picked up my fork. "I'll eat."
Once this meal was finished, everything would be over.
In the dead of night, the pain tore through my abdomen. Blood seeped from between my legs, spreading across the sheets in a slow, dark stain.
Omero called out toward the door, and Dr. Pastore walked in at once, as though he had been waiting just outside. He was already rolling his sleeves, wiping his hands on a cloth with a thoroughness that had nothing to do with hygiene.