When I opened my eyes, the soft morning light filtered through the slightly parted curtains. For a brief moment, I had the illusion that all of this had just been a bad dream, that I was home, that everything was normal.
But the dull ache in my muscles and the brutal memories of the previous day quickly reminded me otherwise. The gunfire, the threatening faces, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against my temple.
I turned my head, and there he was—Alessandro, sitting in the armchair near the bed. He seemed to be watching over me, his expression grave and almost frozen, but his eyes betrayed a profound worry.
When I moved slightly, he immediately stood and approached the bed.
"Don't move too much, darling. You're still weak," he said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder to keep me from sitting up.
My voice came out hoarse, barely audible. "The baby... Is it...?"