I was still on the floor where the federal agents had left me, the echo of their warrant a deafening roar in the sudden silence of the mansion. Marco was on the phone, his voice a low, urgent murmur as he spoke to Dante's lawyer. Isabella rushed in, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. "Ella! Oh my God, are you okay?"
"They arrested him," I said, my voice numb, disconnected from my body.
"I know," she said, helping me to my feet, her arm a steadying presence. "We'll fix this."
"How?" I asked, the reality of the situation crashing down on me. "They have Antonio. He's testifying against him."
"Dante's lawyer is the best in the country," she insisted, though I could see the doubt in her own eyes. "There's always a way."
David Chen, Dante's lawyer for the past decade, arrived within the hour. He was a man in his fifties, dressed in a suit that cost more than my old car, with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. "Mrs. Russo," he said, his tone professional but not unkind. "I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances."
"Can you get him out?" I asked, the question a desperate plea.
"I'm working on securing a bail hearing for tomorrow morning," he said, his expression grim. "But with federal racketeering charges this serious, and a cooperating witness like Antonio, it won't be easy." He explained the charges—weapons trafficking, conspiracy to commit murder, money laundering—each one a hammer blow, each one carrying a sentence of years, even decades. If convicted on all counts, it was essentially a life sentence.
"Life?" I whispered, the word catching in my throat.
"Worst-case scenario," Chen said quickly. "But we will fight this. I need you to be strong, Mrs. Russo. Dante is going to need you."
The words just tumbled out of me, a desperate, unplanned confession. "I'm pregnant."
Chen's sharp eyes widened. "How far along?"
"I just found out today," I said, my voice trembling. "Maybe four or five weeks."
"That… could help," he said, already strategizing. "At sentencing, it shows strong family ties. But first, we need to get him out on bail."
That night, the bed felt like a vast, empty continent. I clutched Dante's pillow, burying my face in the fabric that still smelled faintly of him, and cried until I had no tears left. I thought of the tiny, precious life growing inside me, a secret spark of hope in this overwhelming darkness. What if he never got to meet our baby? The stress and the pregnancy conspired against me, and I spent half the night being sick in the bathroom. Isabella found me there, her face etched with worry. "I'm staying with you," she said firmly. "Until he's home." I was too exhausted to argue, only grateful not to be completely alone.
The next morning, Chen arranged a visit. The county jail was a cold, harsh, institutional nightmare. The smell of disinfectant and despair clung to the air. As I waited in a room filled with other families—women with tired eyes, children too young to understand, elderly parents with stooped shoulders—I felt a painful kinship. This was the other side of Dante's world, the one paid for in broken lives and years stolen away.
We were separated by a thick pane of glass, our voices tinny and distant over the phone receivers. When he walked in, wearing a standard-issue orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him, my heart shattered. He looked exhausted, unshaven, and a decade older. He sat down, and for a long moment, we just stared at each other, the chasm between us feeling impossibly wide.
"Don't cry," he said, his voice rough. "Please, Ella."
"I can't help it," I sobbed.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes filled with a desperate concern. "The baby?"
"We're okay," I lied. "Just some morning sickness." I looked at him, at the dark circles under his eyes. "How are you?"
He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've had better accommodations." He was trying to be strong for me, and it broke my heart. "Chen says the bail hearing is tomorrow."
"I know. They'll probably deny it," he said, his voice flat with a pragmatism I hated. "Flight risk, danger to the community, all the usual bullshit."
"Don't say that," I pleaded. "We have to have hope."
"I'm sorry, Ella," he said, his own voice breaking. "For all of this. You're pregnant, and I'm in here. My past… it's come back to destroy our future."
"Our future isn't destroyed," I insisted, pressing my hand to the cold glass, wishing I could feel his skin. "You're going to beat this."
"I might miss everything," he whispered, the words a confession of his deepest fear. "The pregnancy, the birth, our baby's first steps, their first words. Everything that matters."
"You won't," I said, my voice fierce. "Chen will get you out. And if he doesn't, I'll bring our baby here every single week so you can be a part of their life."
His eyes closed in pain. "I don't want my child's first memories to be of a jail."
"Then fight!" I urged. "Fight harder than you've ever fought before. Not with guns, Dante. With the truth. Make a deal."
"I can't," he said, his eyes snapping open. "If I cooperate, I'm dead. Antonio is in witness protection. I have a wife and a baby on the way. They would find you. They would use you to get to me."
"Then we'll go into witness protection too!"
"No!" he said, his voice sharp. "I will not have you and our child living in hiding, always looking over your shoulder. That's not a life."
"It's better than you being in prison for the rest of yours!" I shot back, my voice rising. A guard glanced over, and I lowered my tone. "We're partners, Dante. We decide this together."
"Some things I have to decide alone," he said, his voice firm. "To protect you."
"Two minutes," the guard called out.
"I love you," I said, the words feeling inadequate. "So much."
"I love you," he replied, his eyes conveying everything his words could not. "Both of you. Take care of yourself. And our baby."
The guard's final "Time's up" was a death knell. They led him away, and I watched until he disappeared through the heavy steel door. Then I collapsed into myself, my sobs echoing in the small, sterile room.
The bail hearing was a blur of legal jargon and crushing disappointment. The prosecutor painted Dante as a monster, a flight risk, a danger to every man, woman, and child in the city. She played a recording from a phone tap, Dante's voice cold and clear: "If Antonio talks, he dies." The words, taken out of context, were damning.
Chen argued passionately, citing Dante's community ties, his legitimate businesses, his pregnant wife. I sat in the front row, dressed in a conservative navy dress Isabella had picked out, my hand resting on my belly, playing the part of the devoted, sympathetic wife. But it wasn't a part. It was my reality.
The judge was unmoved. "Given the severity of the charges and the evidence of witness intimidation, bail is denied."
The bang of the gavel was the sound of my world ending. No bail. He would stay in jail until the trial, which Chen estimated wouldn't be for another eight to ten months. The baby would be born. Dante would miss it. As the marshals led him away, he looked back at me, his face a mask of despair, and mouthed the words, "I'm sorry."
The media frenzy outside the courthouse was a nightmare. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted questions. "Mrs. Russo, did you know about your husband's crimes?" "Is it true you're pregnant?" I kept my head down, my face a stony mask, as Marco and a team of security guards pushed a path through the mob to our car.
The moment the door closed, I broke. I sobbed, great, heaving, breathless sobs, the full weight of our situation crashing down on me. Isabella held me, murmuring words of comfort that I couldn't hear over the sound of my own heart breaking.
"How will I do this?" I cried. "He's in jail. I'm pregnant. Our baby will be born, and he won't be there."
"Then we fight," Isabella said, her voice fierce. "Every single day. We don't give up. You're going to be a mother, Ella. That makes you invincible."
I didn't feel invincible. I felt terrified. But as the car sped away from the courthouse, away from the flashing cameras and the shouting reporters, I put my hand on my belly. Inside me, a tiny human was growing, a tiny piece of Dante and me. The gavel's bang still echoed in my head: bail denied. Eight months. It felt like a lifetime. But as I thought of the child I was carrying, a new, unfamiliar strength began to bloom in the barren landscape of my fear. I had to be strong. For Dante. For our baby. For us. The fight was just beginning.