Chapter 5 - THREE WEEKS
Dante had twenty-one days before surrender.
He did not ask to spend them with me.
That mattered.
He asked through the parenting app for:
one meeting about contingency planning,
one tour of the neutral family center,
and permission to record a short message for the baby to watch someday if I chose.
I agreed to the first two.
The video?
“Not yet.”
He accepted.
Then media.
The sentencing created a fresh wave.
One headline:
PREGNANT EX-WIFE MAY WAIT WHILE MORETTI SERVES TIME.
No.
I was not waiting.
I was thirty-five weeks pregnant and trying to finish a frame for a client who had chosen a terrible gold mat.
Life.
Then my landlord received a call from a reporter asking whether “the Moretti baby” would live in the building.
He panicked.
Not because he wanted me out.
Because photographers bothered tenants.
He asked whether I would consider terminating the lease early.
My stomach dropped.
There.
Even without Dante acting, his name could alter my housing.
I called Lena.
No threats.
No retaliation.
We negotiated:
building would enforce no-trespass rules for media.
landlord would not change my lease.
I agreed not to permit press in common areas.
Fine.
Then Dante heard.
He did not offer to buy the building.
Growth.
He sent one message:
Do you want help with legal costs related to press?
I answered:
No. Covered.
Okay.
That was all.
Then the contingency meeting.
If Dante surrendered before birth:
he would be notified after delivery through Naomi.
He could request one supervised video call when I felt ready.
No assumption of infant prison visitation.
After release, custody plan would phase in gradually.
If baby arrived before surrender:
Dante could visit after invitation.
No automatic overnight.
No press announcement.
Then Dante asked:
“If the baby comes the day before surrender, I still go.”
I looked.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No:
I’ll ask judge.
Good.
Then finances.
Child support calculation used legal income.
Complicated because Dante’s wealth included trusts and business interests.
We hired a neutral forensic accountant.
Not his CFO.
Not mine.
The result:
substantial support.
I initially wanted less.
Lena said:
“This belongs to the child, not your pride.”
Right.
We set:
monthly support into documented account.
medical/education expenses allocated.
no gifts substituting for support.
no financial control over my household.
annual disclosures through counsel.
Good.
Then trust for child.
Dante wanted one.
I agreed if:
independent trustee.
No company-employment condition.
No marriage condition.
No “continuity” security clause.
No unilateral distributions controlled by Dante.
No requirement child use Moretti surname.
He agreed.
Then corporate succession.
Naomi said Moretti family trust documents historically gave descendants certain voting rights.
I said:
“No.”
Dante looked at her.
Then:
“Can we opt the child out?”
She said yes.
He did.
Good.
No baby prince.
Then surname.
I finally decided.
Alvarez Moretti.
Two names.
Not hyphenated? Let's make legal surname Alvarez-Moretti. Okay.
I told Dante.
He stared.
Then:
“Thank you.”
Again.
I said:
“It is not a gift to you.”
“You’re right.”
Good.
Then the name itself.
First name unknown.
I had three options.
Dante had suggestions.
We agreed to wait until birth.
No dynasty names.
Then his surrender date approached.
Ten days.
I saw him once at the neutral family center.
No reason for him to be there except to understand the place where post-release visits might begin.
He looked ridiculous in a room painted with cartoon clouds.
I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“You look like you’re about to audit the toy kitchen.”
He smiled.
Then picked up a wooden carrot.
“Poor inventory controls.”
I laughed harder.
That was dangerous.
Normality can make you forget history.
Then he said:
“Mia.”
“What?”
“I miss you.”
The laugh disappeared.
There.
“I know.”
“I am not asking you to change anything.”
“Good.”
Then:
“I miss you too.”
His face changed.
I hated how relieved he looked.
Then I added:
“That does not mean I want to be married to you again.”
“I know.”
Good.
Then:
“Do you ever think about it?”
He asked carefully.
“About what?”
“Us.”
I looked at the toy kitchen.
“Yes.”
Then:
“And?”
“I think the version we had was not safe for me.”
He nodded.
“Could there be another version?”
“That is not a question I can answer before you go to prison.”
His face tightened.
Then:
“You’re right.”
Good.
Then three days before surrender, the baby decided schedules were stupid.
My water broke at 2:17 a.m.
Not dramatic.
I woke with wet sheets and thought:
seriously?
Then contraction.
Ana drove me to St. Anne’s.
No Dante call from me.
The plan:
notify after admission.
Lena sent the message through the parenting app at 3:08.
Mia admitted in labor. Mother and baby stable. No visit unless invited.
Dante replied:
Understood. Tell her I am available if she wants anything.
Good.
Labor lasted fourteen hours.
I cursed everyone.
Ana nearly lost a finger to my grip.
My doctor said I was doing well.
I told her that phrase was offensive.
Then at eleven centimeters? Not possible. Ten. Let's avoid detail.
By late afternoon, I was exhausted.
The baby’s heart rate dipped twice.
Recovered with positioning.
Nothing catastrophic.
Still terrifying.
I thought of Dante.
Not because he could fix it.
Because he was the father.
I told Ana:
“Call Lena.”
Then:
“Tell Dante he can come to the hospital. Waiting room only.”
Ana nodded.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
How?
He had been nearby at his lawyer’s office, preparing surrender documents.
No speeding convoy.
Hospital security confirmed identity.
He waited.
No entry.
Then the baby was born at 5:41 p.m.
A girl.
Seven pounds, one ounce.
Loud.
Angry.
Perfect.
I cried.
Ana cried.
The nurse cried because apparently everyone was emotional.
Then name.
I looked at her face.
Not a Moretti ancestor.
Not my mother.
Not anyone whose story she would have to carry.
“Eva.”
Ana smiled.
“Eva Alvarez-Moretti.”
Yes.
Then I slept for an hour.
When I woke, Lena was there.
“Dante is still waiting.”
“How long?”
“Three hours.”
Of course.
I looked at Eva.
Then:
“Ten minutes.”
Lena nodded.
Hospital staff brought Dante in alone.
No phone.
No security.
He stopped at the doorway.
He had never looked afraid like that.
Not at sentencing.
Not outside my apartment.
“Hi,” I said.
His eyes filled immediately.
“Hi.”
Then he looked at Eva.
He did not move closer.
“Can I?”
He meant approach.
“Yes.”
He came to the side of the bed.
Then:
“Can I hold her?”
I hesitated.
Then:
“Sit.”
He sat.
The nurse showed him how.
I placed Eva in his arms.
His hands shook.
The most feared man in every newspaper cliché looked down at a seven-pound baby and forgot how to breathe.
“Eva,” I said.
He looked up.
“Eva.”
Then:
“Alvarez-Moretti.”
His face broke.
He kissed the top of her hat.
Then froze.
Looked at me.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need permission to kiss your daughter.”
That mattered too.
Boundaries should not become absurdity.
He looked down again.
“Hello, Eva.”
She yawned.
Then slept.
No miracle recognition.
Good.
Ten minutes became fifteen.
Then I said:
“I’m tired.”
Dante stood instantly.
He handed Eva back carefully.
At the door:
“Mia.”
“What?”
“Thank you for letting me meet her.”
I nodded.
Then:
“You surrender in three days.”
“Yes.”
“Do not ask for delay.”
“I won’t.”
Good.
Then he left.
No kiss.
No touching me.
Three days later, Dante surrendered voluntarily to federal custody.
I was home from the hospital with Eva, sleeping in ninety-minute pieces.
Ana heated soup.
The parenting app showed one message sent before he turned over his phone:
Going in. No reply needed. Tell Eva I met her once and it was enough to know I want to earn every future visit.
I cried.
Then deleted nothing.
Not a promise.
A record.
Dante’s incarceration did not pause my life.
The three weeks before surrender also forced one uncomfortable issue into the open.
My maternity leave.
The framing studio was small.
Paid leave was limited.
Child support would cover a lot, but I did not want my employment to quietly disappear because pregnancy made me inconvenient.
Lila and I sat down with an accountant.
Not Dante’s.
We created:
eight weeks fully off,
four weeks part-time return if medically ready,
temporary freelancer coverage,
and a written guarantee that my position would remain available.
I used some savings.
The studio used a state leave program.
Child support covered Eva’s expenses, not my lost wages.
Messy.
Real.
Then Dante heard through the co-parenting channel that I had a leave plan.
He asked:
Do you need contribution toward pregnancy-related lost income?
I stared.
That was a legitimate question.
Also dangerous territory.
Lena checked the law.
In our jurisdiction, certain pregnancy-related costs could be shared.
I agreed only to the amount counsel calculated as legally appropriate.
No extra.
No personal check.
Dante accepted.
That distinction mattered.
Responsibility could exist without becoming rescue.
Then the day before my water broke, I assembled a bassinet badly.
A screw remained on the floor.
I stared at it for ten minutes.
My first impulse was to call Dante.
Not because he was better with furniture.
Because he always made problems disappear.
I did not call.
I read the instructions again.
The screw belonged to an optional wheel bracket.
Nothing was broken.
I laughed alone in the apartment until I cried.
Sometimes independence was less dramatic than surviving a threat.
May you like
Sometimes it was learning a leftover screw did not mean disaster.
That was the first thing we both had to learn.
