Chapter 24: The Coldest Winter

The snow fell in thick, slow spirals outside the frost-bitten window of the Vienna flat, painting the city in silence. The world beyond was white and muted, but inside the apartment, everything felt darker. Quieter. Still.

A single light flickered in the kitchen — yellow and weak, like it had given up fighting the cold. The apartment was small, barely enough for one person. The furniture was mismatched and tired, a couch with a tear down the side, a table with a crooked leg, and curtains that didn’t quite reach the floor. The radiator hissed but gave off little warmth. The only sound that filled the air was the ticking of a wall clock… and the occasional wail of a distant siren swallowed by snow.

Siena stood barefoot in the bathroom, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other resting lightly on her swollen belly. She wore a long grey t-shirt that hung loose over her thin frame, except where it stretched across the curve of her stomach — the only sign that life still bloomed inside her.

Six months.

Six months of growing someone else’s heart inside her own. Of counting weeks and breaths and dollars. Of waking up in a city where no one knew her name.

Her reflection stared back from the cracked mirror — pale cheeks, tired eyes, hair pulled into a messy bun. Her lips were trembling. She looked nothing like the girl who used to wear red lipstick and laugh too loud in dark nightclubs. Nothing like the woman who once danced in Adriano Valtasari’s arms like the world belonged to her.

She looked like a ghost.

She traced her belly slowly, gently, as if the child inside might break beneath her touch. Then she closed her eyes — not from pain, but from the ache of remembering.

She hadn’t meant to hide the pregnancy.

Not really.

At first, she told herself she just needed time. Time to breathe, to run, to figure out where she ended and Adriano began. But then weeks turned into months, and each time she thought of telling him… something stopped her.

Something like fear.

Or pride.

Or maybe both.

Her hand trembled against her skin.

The baby kicked — just a tiny flutter, barely a whisper.

Siena’s breath caught in her throat, and a tear slipped down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not knowing if she meant it for the child… or the man she’d left behind.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, her world stayed still.

Waiting for something to break.

---

The blanket on the bed was thin and frayed at the edges, but Siena wrapped it around her shoulders as she sat on the edge of the mattress. The air in the room was sharp, brittle with winter. Her fingers were stiff from the cold, but they moved anyway — reaching for the notebook she kept in the drawer beside the bed.

Not a diary.

Not really.

More like a place where her thoughts went to bleed quietly, one page at a time.

She opened it to a clean sheet, the paper yellowed and slightly creased, and reached for the pen. It took her a moment before she started writing — as if her body had to remember how to speak through ink.

"Adriano,

I don’t know if you’d even care.

But she kicks when I cry.

So I try not to."

The words hit the page like a confession. Her hand paused, the pen trembling. She blinked rapidly, then inhaled shakily and kept writing.

"I don’t know if you’d recognize me now.

I barely recognize myself.

I live on the edge of cities. In shadows.

I count coins. I take buses. I lie.

I lie to everyone about who she is.

And I lie to myself about why.

Sometimes I dream that you come knocking.

That you find me. That you ask why I ran.

I want to say it was because I was scared.

But that’s not the truth.

The truth is… I knew if I stayed, I would’ve stayed forever.

And forever with you never felt safe."

A tear dropped onto the paper. She wiped it away with her palm, smudging the ink. Her gaze drifted to her belly — where her daughter stirred again, soft and steady, like she could feel the grief in her mother’s bones.

Siena let her head fall forward, her shoulders curling inward.

Her thoughts turned inward too.

She remembered his voice in the dark. The way he said her name. The way the danger in him made her feel alive — until it made her feel caged.

She remembered the heat of his hands, the weight of his stare. The nights when he looked at her like she was both salvation and punishment. The mornings when he left before sunrise and came back with blood on his sleeves and guilt in his silence.

She remembered thinking she could change him.

And she remembered the moment she stopped trying.

Her eyes returned to the page.

"She’ll never know your voice.

Or your laugh. Or your temper.

And you’ll never know the way she kicks at night.

Or how she calms when I sing to her.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Maybe not.

I don’t even know what I want you to do with this.

I just wanted to tell someone.

That she exists.

That you have a daughter."

Siena closed the notebook.

She didn’t sign her name.

She never would.

This letter would never leave this room. Never reach him.

But still — it was the most honest thing she’d written in her life.

She slid the notebook under the mattress, next to the little bag she kept packed — just in case. Then she lay down, her arms curled around her belly, and whispered to the child growing inside her:

“I don’t know what kind of world I’m giving you. But I swear I’ll never stop trying.”

The snow kept falling outside.

And somewhere in the city, life went on — unaware that the woman who once belonged to the most dangerous man in Italy… was learning how to survive without him.

---

It started with a twitch.

A sharp, strange pull deep inside her belly that made Siena pause mid-breath. She shifted slightly on the mattress, pressing a hand to the curve of her stomach.

“Hey,” she whispered to her unborn daughter, “was that you again?”

But the second wave wasn’t a kick.

It was pain.

Deep. Twisting. Like a rope coiled too tight and suddenly yanked.

Siena inhaled sharply, eyes wide. She gripped the edge of the bed as another contraction tore through her —hot and blinding. Her skin went clammy. Her vision blurred for a moment.

“No, no, no…” she breathed. “It’s too early.”

Her hands trembled as she tried to stand. The room tilted. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled toward the dresser, catching herself just before she fell.

The pain hit again.

This time, she cried out.

It was too soon. She was only six months along. This couldn’t be labor — it couldn’t.

But her body didn’t listen.

It cramped again, harder, sharper, as if something inside her had begun to rupture.

She reached for the cheap phone charging on the nightstand. Her fingers slipped. She caught it just before it fell, her breath catching in her throat.

She dialed.

Fumbled.

Waited.

A voice answered in German, calm and robotic.

She switched to English, her voice raw and shaking. “Help. I’m — I’m pregnant. It hurts. I think I’m — I need an ambulance. Please —”

She didn’t know if they understood.

She didn’t know what she said.

The phone dropped to the floor as another contraction seized her, and she fell to her knees, one arm wrapped around her belly, the other clawing at the sheets.

Her body was on fire. Her thoughts were ice.

The cold of the room.

The cold of the tiles.

The cold inside her heart that whispered: You’re alone.

She tried to breathe. Counted backwards. Focused on her daughter’s name in her head — Lucia, Lucia, Lucia —as if saying it enough could anchor her.

But everything slipped.

The lights flickered.

The corners of the room bled into shadows.

And just before darkness closed in, she whispered:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this alone.”

---

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead — harsh, unforgiving, and painfully white.

Siena blinked against the brightness, her eyes dry but burning. Everything smelled like antiseptic and metal, the sheets beneath her body stiff and scratchy against her skin. A thin hospital gown clung to her shoulders, open at the back. One IV was threaded into the crook of her elbow, taped down with shaking efficiency. Another line attached to a monitor that blinked and beeped beside her — keeping time with a rhythm that wasn’t hers.

Her baby’s heartbeat.

She listened to it like a prayer.

Steady. Faint. But still there.

Her lips parted. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Every breath was a negotiation between pain and fear.

A soft knock.

Then the door creaked open and a doctor stepped in — young, tired, and trying to look professional. He held a clipboard like it would protect him from the weight in the room.

“You’re stable,” he said quietly. “We’ve stopped the contractions. For now.”

Siena didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling tiles.

“You’re only twenty-six weeks,” he added. “It’s good you called when you did. Another hour and...”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Siena slowly turned her head toward him, eyes rimmed in red.

“You should have someone here with you,” he said gently. “Family. Partner. Anyone.”

She swallowed. Her voice cracked.

“I don’t.”

The doctor gave her a sad nod and murmured something before stepping back out.

The door closed.

Silence returned — except for the slow, ghostly beep of the fetal monitor and the muted hum of machines.

Siena shifted slightly, wincing as pain lanced through her lower back. She brought her hand to her stomach and laid it there, flat and trembling.

“Still with me, huh?” she whispered.

The baby kicked, just barely.

Her tears returned.

She didn’t sob. Didn’t scream.

She just let them fall — warm and silent — into the pillow as she stared into the dark.

One drop after another. Slow. Relentless. Like the hours.

Outside the window, snow continued to fall in the blackness beyond the glass.

Inside, Siena held her stomach and whispered again.

“It’s just you and me, baby. We survive alone.”

---

The wind howled against the thin hospital windows, but inside the room, everything had gone still.

Siena lay curled on her side, knees drawn up slightly beneath the sterile sheets, one hand resting protectively on the gentle swell of her belly. Her fingers didn’t move — just pressed there, warm and trembling, as if willing the world outside to quiet down.

Her eyes were closed.

Not in sleep. But in surrender.

A single tear traced the curve of her cheek, disappearing into the pillow without a sound.

Outside the window, snow kept falling — soft and steady, blanketing the city in silence.

No footsteps.

No voices.

No promises.

Just a woman. A child. A breath between them.

And a winter that wouldn’t end.

The camera of memory would hold there — frozen — on the image of her silhouette beneath the pale blue light, hand on her unborn daughter, framed by a storm.

The world didn’t notice her pain.

But she survived it anyway.

Alone.

---