THE ROMANO DAUGHTERS

                      ~ELENA~

The hospital room smells like antiseptic when I wake again.

For a terrifying second, my arms feel empty. Then I hear it.

Three tiny breaths. Soft. Uneven. Alive.

I turn my head slowly and see them….three bassinets lined up beside my bed, each holding a piece of my heart.

They look unreal. Identical little faces, pink and wrinkled, eyes still learning how to exist in the world.

A laugh slips out of my throat, half-sob, half-disbelief.

 “I really did that,” I whisper.

“You really did,” Nico murmurs.

He’s sitting beside me, eyes red, hair a mess, looking like he hasn’t slept since the beginning of time. 

Vincenzo stands near the window, arms crossed, pretending to be calm and failing badly. 

Riccardo is hovering over the bassinets like a bodyguard, checking each baby’s chest rise and fall every few seconds.

He's looking at the babies with so much care, love and attention that you can barely believe he's the same person that killed his father and Alessandro.

“They all look the same,” Riccardo mutters. “This is dangerous.”

Before anyone can respond, the door bursts open.

“Elena!”

Gianna’s voice hits the room like a bomb.

“Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!!” She rushes to my side, tears already streaming down her face. “You gave birth to triplets. Triplets!”

Valentina follows behind her, stunned into silence, one hand pressed over her mouth as she stares at the babies.

“They’re perfect,” Valentina whispers. “They’re actually perfect. We came running here the moment we heard the great news.”

Gianna spins toward the boys. “I’m the godmother.”

Vincenzo lifts a brow. “We haven’t discussed….”

“I don’t care,” Gianna cuts in. “I’ve emotionally prepared for this my entire life. We promised to be godmothers to our children.”

Valentina clears her throat calmly. 

“I’m also the godmother,” she says.

Gianna gasps. “You can’t just declare that!”

“I just did.”

I laugh, my stomach aching but my heart light.

 “You’re both godmothers,” I say. “All three of them.”

Gianna squeals and hugs me carefully. 

“I will spoil them responsibly,” she says happily.

“No, you won’t,” Nico says dryly.

They stay for hours….crying, laughing, arguing over who looks like who, taking far too many pictures. The room feels full. Warm. Alive.

Two days later, I’m discharged.

The sun is brighter when we step outside, like the world is welcoming us back differently now.

Vincenzo insists on checking the car seats himself—twice. 

Nico carries bags like it’s nothing. 

Riccardo keeps glancing back at me like he’s afraid this is all a dream.

At home, the house feels transformed.

Bigger somehow. Like it was waiting for them.

That night, when things finally slow down, I sit on the couch with all three babies laid out in front of me.

“I’ve been thinking about their names,” I say quietly.

The room stills.

I lift the first baby—the calmest one, eyes already open, quietly observing everything. She doesn’t cry. She just watches, serious and steady, like she’s already measuring the world.

“This is Fiorella,” I whisper. “Because she reminds me of her father.”

Vincenzo looks up sharply.

“She’s gentle,” I continue softly, brushing a finger over her cheek, “but she grew in hard soil and still bloomed. Like you. Controlled. Elegant. Dangerous when crossed—but protective by nature.”

Vincenzo’s jaw tightens. His hand curls slowly.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough. 

He reaches for her and carry her in his arms. Fiorella settles against his chest immediately, fingers curling into his shirt.

“She chose me,” he says quietly. “She’s mine.”

The second baby squirms, fists clenched, her tiny face scrunching in protest as she lets out a sharp little cry.

I smile through the exhaustion.

“This one is Marcella.”

Nico leans closer instinctively.

“She’s loud,” I say fondly. “Strong. She fights the world the second it touches her. She doesn’t wait for permission….she demands space.”

Marcella lets out another indignant sound, like she’s agreeing.

“She’s fearless,” I add. “Like you. Passionate. Protective. Unapologetic.”

Nico laughs softly, eyes shining. “Yeah. That checks out.”

He lifts her and holds her tight in his hands.

The third baby sleeps through everything—peaceful, trusting, her tiny chest rising and falling evenly, like she knows she’s safe.

I lift her carefully.

“And this is Camilla.”

Riccardo’s breath stutters.

“She’s quiet,” I whisper. “She will feel deeply but doesn’t show it.”

Camilla shifts slightly, pressing closer to warmth without waking.

“She will love softly,” I say, my voice breaking. “Like you. Steady. Loyal. Always staying.”

Riccardo swallows hard, eyes filling with tears. “I’ll protect her with my life.”

They’re identical—same nose, same lips, same tiny ears.

But there are differences.

Fiorella has a faint birthmark near her collarbone.

Marcella has a small dot on her left wrist.

Camilla has a tiny curl in her hair that refuses to lie flat.

Small things.

Enough to tell them apart. Enough to make them theirs.

I watch them…my lovers, my family….each holding a baby like it’s the most precious thing they’ve ever touched.

They wanted to be fathers to just one baby when I told them I was pregnant. Now, each of them has their own baby.

I smile at them.

Grief brought me here. Love kept me standing.

I lost my mother. But I gained a family.

And in the soft darkness of this room….with my three lovers, my three daughters—Fiorella Romano, Marcella Romano and Camilla Romano, my forever….

I know, without doubt…

This is where my story was always meant to end.

And where theirs begins.