The comments were flooded with congratulations. Associates. Allied Family heads. Men whose names I recognized from sit-downs and territory negotiations, men who owed their positions to Valente protection they didn't even know about, falling over themselves to celebrate the Rossetti heir.
I stared at that photo. The tears came anyway.
Some things are simply cruel.
The girl I'd lost didn't even have a name yet. I'd been saving that. Waiting until she was further along, until it felt safe to say it out loud. In this world, you learned not to name things you loved too early. The Families taught you that. Name it, and someone can take it from you.
But I was grateful, at least, that I'd found out before it was too late. I could still walk away.
The day I was discharged, a nurse helped me pack my things. My hands were steady. My face was washed. I had put myself back together the way my mother had taught me, the way a Valente woman does it: from the inside out, so that by the time anyone sees you, there is nothing left to pity.
"Ms. Valente, how come no one's visited you these past few days? Are you sure you'll be okay going home alone?"