On December 5th, the first day of Dante's trial, I was thirty-two weeks pregnant. Eight months. My doctor had been unequivocal: strict bed rest. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't let him face this alone.
"You're supposed to be resting!" Isabella argued as I struggled to pull on a conservative maternity dress, my swollen feet protesting the uncomfortable shoes.
"I'm not missing this," I said, my voice firm. "He needs to look over and see me there. He needs to know I'm with him."
"And what if you go into labor in the middle of the courtroom?"
"Then you'll take me to the hospital," I said simply. "But I am going."
The media frenzy outside the courthouse was even more intense than it had been for the bail hearing. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted questions, their voices a chaotic roar. Marco and a team of four guards formed a human shield around me, pushing through the mob. Inside, the formal, intimidating courtroom was packed. I took my seat in the front row, directly behind the defense table, my hand resting protectively on my huge, round belly.
Then they brought him in. He was in a perfectly tailored dark suit, not the orange jumpsuit of my nightmares, but he looked tired, the strain of the last five months etched around his eyes. He scanned the room, and when his gaze found mine, a wave of relief washed over his face, quickly followed by a look of deep concern. He mouthed the words, *"You shouldn't be here."*
I mouthed back, *"Yes, I should."*
The judge entered, a stern, no-nonsense man in his sixties. "All rise." The trial began.
The lead prosecutor, a sharp, ruthless woman named Amanda Pierce, delivered her opening statement with chilling precision. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," she began, her voice ringing with conviction. "Dante Russo is not *allegedly* a criminal. He *is* a criminal. For over a decade, he has operated a vast criminal enterprise built on weapons trafficking, racketeering, and murder."
My hand tightened on my belly, an instinctive gesture to shield Sophia from the venom in her words. Pierce laid out her case, a damning timeline of dates, wiretaps, and financial records. She promised the jury they would hear from Antonio Greco, a man who had worked with Dante for years, a man who had witnessed his crimes firsthand. Photos flashed on the large screen—crime scenes, confiscated weapons, faces of men long dead. Dante's face remained an impassive mask, but I could see the muscle ticking in his jaw.
"By the end of this trial," Pierce concluded, her eyes sweeping over the jury, "you will know the truth. Dante Russo is guilty. And justice demands you convict him."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the courtroom. I felt sick, the nausea a bitter combination of pregnancy and pure, unadulterated fear.
David Chen, Dante's lawyer, stood to deliver his opening, his confidence a welcome balm. "Ms. Pierce told you that Dante Russo is a criminal," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "I'm here to tell you she's wrong." He painted a different picture, one of a flawed but brilliant businessman, a loving husband, a father-to-be. He gestured to me, and twelve pairs of eyes turned to assess me, my swollen belly, my anxious face. "This is Mrs. Russo," he said. "Eight months pregnant with their first child. A daughter, due in just a few weeks. Does this look like a man who belongs in prison for the rest of his life?"
He attacked the prosecution's case, calling it circumstantial, built on the testimony of a desperate man, Antonio, who would say anything to save himself. "At the end of this trial," Chen finished, "I will ask you if the prosecution has proven its case beyond a reasonable doubt. The answer will be no. And you must acquit."
During the first recess, I struggled to my feet, a dull ache starting in my lower back. "You okay?" Isabella asked, her hand on my arm.
"Just practice contractions," I lied, breathing through the discomfort. "It's just stress." But another one hit, stronger this time, and I had to grip the back of the chair to stay upright.
"That's the third one in twenty minutes," Isabella said, her eyes wide with alarm. "We should go."
"No," I insisted. "I'm staying."
The first witness, an FBI agent, took the stand, his testimony a dry, damning recitation of the investigation. The technical details droned on for two hours. My back pain intensified, and the contractions grew more frequent, more insistent. I tried to hide it, breathing slowly, shifting in my seat, but then I felt it. A sudden, warm gush of fluid. My water had broken.
"Bella," I whispered, my voice choked with panic. "My water just broke. I'm in labor."
Her eyes widened in horror. As she started to stand, a massive contraction ripped through me, and a loud gasp escaped my lips. I doubled over, unable to hide the pain. The courtroom erupted into chaos. Everyone turned to stare.
"Ella!" Dante yelled, jumping to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor. The marshals grabbed him, holding him back as he fought to get to me.
"What's happening?" the judge demanded, banging his gavel.
"She's in labor!" Isabella shouted. "We need paramedics!"
Dante was struggling against the marshals, his face a mask of desperation. "Let me go to her! That's my wife! My baby!"
Paramedics rushed in, their calm professionalism a stark contrast to the pandemonium around them. "We need to transport, now," one of them said, as they helped me onto a stretcher.
"Your Honor, please," Dante begged, his voice breaking. "Let me go with her. My daughter is being born."
The prosecutor, Amanda Pierce, was on her feet. "He's an extreme flight risk, Your Honor."
The judge's face was sympathetic but firm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Russo. Motion denied." He banged his gavel. "This court is adjourned until tomorrow morning."
As they wheeled me out, I saw Dante completely break. He slammed himself against the wall, a raw, guttural cry of pure agony torn from his throat. "ELLA!" he screamed, his voice echoing down the hall. He slid to the floor, his head in his hands, the unbreakable man, utterly broken.
In the ambulance, the contractions were coming every five minutes. "It's too early," I cried to Isabella, who was holding my hand. "She's only thirty-two weeks."
"The hospital has an excellent NICU," the paramedic assured me. "She'll be fine."
"Dante," I sobbed. "Where's Dante? He's missing it. He's missing everything."
"Focus on breathing, Ella," Isabella coached. "Focus on Sophia."
"I can't do this without him."
"You can," she said, her voice fierce. "You're stronger than you know."
The delivery room was a blur of bright lights and urgent voices. "She's four centimeters dilated," a doctor announced. "Moving fast." The NICU team was standing by. The hours passed in a haze of pain and fear. I refused an epidural. If Dante couldn't be here, I would be fully present for both of us. I would feel every moment of our daughter's arrival.
When I was fully dilated, the doctor said, "It's time, Mrs. Russo. You need to push."
"Wait," I gasped. "Can I call him? One more time?"
Isabella made it happen. She called Chen, who called the jail, who had a guard bring a phone to Dante's cell. His voice, tinny and distant, came through the speakerphone Isabella held. "Ella?"
"She's coming, Dante," I cried. "Right now."
"I wish I was there," he said, his voice thick with tears. "God, I wish I was there."
"You are," I sobbed. "You're right here, in my heart."
"Now, Mrs. Russo!" the doctor commanded.
"Push, Ella," Dante's voice urged me on. "Bring our daughter into the world. I'm with you. I swear it."
I pushed, a scream tearing from my throat, my body ripping apart. I pushed with all the love, all the fear, all the rage I had stored up for months. And then, I heard it. A tiny, furious, beautiful cry.
"It's a girl!" the doctor announced.
"Sophia," I sobbed, relief and love washing over me. "Her name is Sophia."
On the phone, I could hear Dante crying. "She's here," he whispered. "She's really here."
They placed her on my chest for just a moment, a tiny, screaming, five-pound, three-ounce miracle. She was perfect. "Hi, Sophia," I whispered, my tears falling onto her downy hair. "I'm your mommy. Your daddy is listening. He loves you so much." Then the nurses whisked her away to the NICU. I watched her go, my arms feeling achingly empty.
"Dante?" I said into the phone.
"I'm here," he choked out.
"She's beautiful. She has your eyes."
"When can I see her?" he asked, the question a knife in my heart. There was a long, painful silence. Neither of us had an answer.
Later that night, I lay in the recovery room, my body exhausted, my heart overflowing. Isabella showed me photos on her phone of our daughter in an incubator, a tiny, fragile being hooked up to wires and monitors. She shouldn't be alone. I should be with her. Dante should be with her.
The trial would resume tomorrow. Twelve strangers would decide if my husband, the father of my child, would spend the rest of his life in a cage. They would decide if he would ever hold his daughter. I lay in the hospital bed, my body feeling empty but my soul full of a fierce, new purpose. This was just the beginning. Of motherhood. Of the fight. Of everything.