After the Fire

—Anna—

Gio and I laid in bed in our little Chicago apartment, tangled in the warmth of our anniversary plans. We’d each taken a week off — August tenth through the seventeenth — to spend our first wedding anniversary together in Michigan on the fourteenth.

We’d gotten married right after high school. I had just turned eighteen in May; Gio would be nineteen in September. We were so sure forever was ours.

“Okay, Gio,” I said, scrolling through the checklist on my phone. “We’re leaving in the morning on the tenth — that’s in three days. I’ll start packing and get everything ready so we can just wake up and go.”

“That sounds perfect, baby,” he murmured, twirling one of my light brown curls around his finger.

I leaned closer, trying to ignore the pit forming in my stomach — that heavy, unshakable feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong.

“Gio, are you sure you can’t just stay home today?” I asked, half teasing, half pleading.

He smiled softly. “Anna Wilhelmina Lombardi, we have all the time in the world. It’s you and me. You’re my person, and you’ll have me all to yourself for the next week as soon as this shift is over.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I just… feel like something bad is going to happen.”

“Anna, it’s a risk I take every day when I run into a burning building,” he said gently, tilting my chin toward his deep brown eyes. “I will come back to you. There’s no way in hell I’m missing my first wedding anniversary with my beautiful wife — the love of my life.”

“I love you,” I whispered, trying to calm the ache rising in my chest.

“I love you too,” he said softly. “Always and forever.”

An hour later, I watched him walk out of our apartment. He looked up at our window and blew me a kiss. I caught it and pressed it to my lips, but the pit in my stomach stayed.

Three hours later, my phone buzzed with a news alert.

Breaking News: Chicago restaurant, The Eatery, collapses after oil fire spreads out of control.

My heart stopped. That was his region. Gio’s region.

I kept reading. Two employees and three firefighters were inside the building at the time of the collapse. So far, none have been recovered.

The world went silent. My body dropped before I even realized I’d moved, my knees hitting the floor as I heaved over the toilet, choking on air. My Gio. My heart. My soul.

The phone buzzed again — Mama.

“Anna, are you okay?” Her voice was panicked. “Do you want me to come over?”

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“I’ll be over in ten minutes with Adrian,” she said quickly, and I heard her calling for my brother.

Nine minutes later, the front door burst open.

“Banana, where are you?” Adrian’s voice echoed through the apartment until he found me in the bathroom, collapsed beside the toilet. He dropped to his knees and pulled me into his arms.

“It’ll be okay. Gio’s going to come home to you,” he whispered, smoothing my hair.

“I don’t think he will,” I choked out. “I had this feeling today — one I couldn’t shake.”

“It’ll all be okay,” he whispered, even though his voice trembled.

Three days later, I stood in the same church where we’d been married — the place that had once held only laughter and light. The sun still filtered through the stained glass the same way it had on our wedding day. I stared at his casket.

He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. He didn’t look like my Gio — the one who was always smiling, always teasing, always full of life. He looked like wax.

I felt numb through the service and the burial, waiting until everyone else had gone before I let myself fall to my knees in the fresh dirt.

“Giovanni Antonio Lombardi,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “You promised me you’d come home. You told me you would. It’s not fair. We were supposed to be in Michigan today. I had to call and cancel. I hate calling, Gio. You know that.”

The words poured out between sobs.

“I’m so mad at you. We were supposed to celebrate one year, start a family, have cute little mini-yous. I’m nineteen and a widow. Do you know how stupid that sounds?” I waited, as if he might answer. “You were supposed to see me graduate.”

If I closed my eyes, I could still feel his chest beneath my cheek, his hand tangled in my hair, the warmth of his goodbye kiss. I could still see him walking away.

And in my bag, I still had the little white box I was going to give him — the test I’d taken two days before. The one that would have told him he was going to be a dad.

Would he have tried harder to come home if I’d told him?

But I’d seen the scratches across his body that they tried to hide at funeral. He had tried. He just didn’t make it.

“Why, Gio?” My voice cracked. “Why did you have to leave me so soon? I was counting on forever.”

A warm hand touched my shoulder. My dad sat down beside me on the dirt.

“Hey, kiddo,” he whispered.

“Daddy,” I managed, my lip trembling. “He’s really gone. And he was going to be a dad.”

My father froze. “What?”

I nodded, sobbing. “I was going to tell him on our anniversary. What do I do now?”

He took a slow breath. “The only thing you can do, sweetheart. Keep moving forward.”

Six months later, I sat in my obstetrician’s office, twisting my wedding ring around my swollen finger. Gio should have been there.

The cold gel hit my stomach, and I stared at the ultrasound screen, heart pounding.

“Mrs. Lombardi,” the doctor said softly, “you’re having twins — a boy and a girl.”

Tears filled my eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” she smiled. “I’ll print these for you.”

Adrian drove me to the cemetery afterward, the ultrasound clutched in my hand.

The snow crunched beneath my boots, the air biting at my face.

“Gio, babe,” I whispered, kneeling in front of his stone, “we’re having a boy and a girl. I don’t know what to name them yet.” I turned the ultrasound toward the grave, as if he could see it. “I wish you were here. I moved back home — it hurt too much being in our apartment. I brought all of your clothes with me when I moved, and your bag’s still packed. It feels like you might walk in any minute and tell me it was all a mistake.”

Three months later, I was in a hospital bed, gripping my mom’s hand so tightly I thought I might break it.

“You’re doing great, kiddo. You can do this,” she whispered, brushing my curls back.

“I can’t,” I gasped.

“Yes, you can. You always can.” She pressed her forehead to mine.

Hours later, I held both babies in my arms.

“Gio,” I whispered through tears, “these are our babies. Aren’t they perfect?”

I hadn’t picked names yet, but I kept looking at the list we’d made as teenagers. “Maybe… Vincent Giovanni and Vittoria Selene,” I murmured. “God, I wish you were here.”

I closed my eyes and imagined him beside me — holding our daughter first, calling her as beautiful as her mother, then cradling our son and insisting he looked just like me.

A soft knock broke the silence. Carla Lombardi stepped inside.

“Carla,” I said, forcing a small smile.

“Anna, don’t pretend you’re not exhausted,” she said gently, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright,” I breathed, “normal and exhausted.”

Her gaze fell to the baby boy in my arms. “He looks exactly like Giovanni did as a baby. May I?”

“Of course. Meet your grandson, Vincent Giovanni.”

Her lip trembled. “And your daughter?”

“Vittoria Selene,” I whispered. “They were on the name list Gio and I made together.”

Carla nodded, her eyes glistening. “He would have been obsessed with her already. His world would’ve revolved around her.”

“He would have done anything for both of them,” I said softly.

She smiled through tears. “That’s our Giovanni.”