The ultrasound room smells of cold gel and expensive healthcare.It is a private suite in the clinic Ciro bullied Dr. Rossi’s partner into opening early. The walls are painted a soothing, neutral beige that is supposed to calm anxious mothers. It doesn't work. The air is thick with the scent of high-octane testosterone and barely suppressed panic.I am lying on the exam table. My shirt is pulled up, exposing the slight curve of my stomach where the second miracle is taking root. My jeans are unbuttoned, the denim rough against my hips.The room is crowded.Aureliano stands by my head. He is gripping my left hand so hard I can feel his pulse thudding against my palm. He is wearing a suit, but he has taken off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves as if he is preparing for a brawl, not a sonogram. His grey eyes are fixed on the black screen of the monitor, intense and unblinking.Ciro looms at the foot of the bed. He is too big for the room. He radiates heat like a furnace, his massive arm
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