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Rosinante knew the moment he woke up.
He knew before Dr. Tegata said anything.
His body had already told him. He was empty.
Dr. Tegata stepped towards the bed with a medical report in his hand and Rosinante's hand shot up. Palm out, fingers trembling.
Don't.
Don't say it.
As if the words would only become real once they left Dr. Tegata’s mouth.
Except it was real.
It was real. And Rosinante was not ready to hear it yet.
He pressed his other hand hard over his lips until his teeth carved into the inner flesh.
He felt sick. Nauseous. Worse than any morning sickness he had ever experienced.
A nurse rushed to hand him a bowl and he gripped it with both hands, expelling bile until there was nothing left.
"Rosinante—" Dr. Tegata started.
"I know." Rosinante wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still heaving. "Do not inform Doflamingo. I will speak to him personally."
A nurse brought him a glass of water. He drank a small sip before lying back on the examination table.
He closed his eyes and took a long exhale.
The sickness wouldn't leave him.
Dr. Tegata looked at him and said nothing. Eventually, he reached over to his tray, picked up a small pouch, and handed it to him.
"You'll need to take this. To expel the—" He paused. "—the tissue."
Rosinante turned his head to the side. His stomach lurched again.
"It is necessary, Rosinante. Otherwise, an infection will spread and—"
"I understand."
Dr. Tegata left the medical report beside him, patted his shoulder and left.
Rosinante told Mila he wanted to be alone for the day.
One look at his face, and Mila knew what had happened.
She bowed her head and quietly told him that Rosalia was asleep in her cot. She had a slight fever, likely caused by the fright. Nothing too serious.
Rosinante limped over to her. His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, still flushed warm.
Thank god she was unharmed. Not a single scratch or bruise.
Thank god she was too small to understand anything.
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before he thanked Mila for looking after her while he had been unconscious for the past few hours.
Mila nodded, her eyes drifting down to his stomach. Her mouth parted, then she looked up at Rosinante's face and closed it.
She gathered the used milk bottles and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Rosinante moved from the cot to lie on the bed.
The pouch was still in his shirt pocket. He took it out and held it above his face.
Swallowing it meant his baby would really be gone.
What was he thinking?
The baby was already gone.
He'd read the medical report over and over after Dr. Tegata left the room.
The words blurred a little more each time his eyes swept over them.
Fetal cardiac activity no longer detected.
Second rhythm no longer present.
Findings are consistent with fetal demise.
Penetrating stab wound to the left thigh with laceration of the femoral vein, resulting in massive hemorrhage.
Fetal demise is most likely attributable to severe physiological trauma, hypovolemic shock, and the resulting blood loss.
He blinked hard and focused on breathing.
Every breath felt like it had to be dragged into his lungs, as if the air itself had turned thick and heavy.
Rosalia made a small noise in her sleep.
He turned his head towards her.
He still had Rosalia. He couldn't let his body rot away from infections.
He placed the pill on his tongue and tried to swallow.
His throat bobbed. The muscles in his neck seized, locking the pill in place. Sourness climbed up, hot and rancid, flooding the back of his throat until he choked.
The pill surged back up, dragging an animalistic sound out of him.
He gagged and spat the pill out.
It landed somewhere near Rosalia’s mat.
He crawled down from the bed. Every movement pulled at the torn flesh of his thigh, stretching the stitches until they split.
He barely registered the warmth of fresh blood soaking through the fabric of his trousers.
He found the pill on the floor and picked it up with trembling fingers. Placed it back on his tongue.
Both hands clamped over his mouth hard, his fingernails digging crescents into his cheeks as he forced himself to swallow.
His body convulsed, bile and saliva surged forward, seeping through the gaps between his fingers, running down his wrists and forearms.
Every muscle in his throat contracted against the pill, rejecting it.
As though his own flesh understood what swallowing it meant and refused to be complicit.
He lay on his back on the floor, palms still pressed over his mouth, chest heaving with each attempt.
Gagging. Swallowing. Gagging again.
Vomit, bile and tears ran down the sides of his face, pooling in the hollows of his ears, soaking into his hair.
The room filled with a bitter, rotten stench.
Finally.
It went down.
His hands fell from his face and dropped to his sides.
He woke up to the sound of Rosalia screaming.
The sun was already going down. Orange light stretched across the floor, casting long shadows over his body.
Her piercing cries drilled into his skull from across the room.
His head throbbed with each cry, a heavy pressure building behind his eyes.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Rosalia.
He raised his fingers and snapped, letting his silent bubble envelop her.
He couldn't let Mila hear her. Couldn't let her come in and see him like this.
He dragged himself to his feet and headed for the bathroom. His thigh froze the moment he put weight on it.
The dried blood had fused his trousers to the torn skin of his thigh. Every limping step ripped them apart again.
He peeled his clothes off and stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to warm.
He stood still, letting the cold water run over him, washing away the filthy layers of vomit, blood and bile.
He stared blankly at the tiles beneath his feet until Rosalia's face cut through the fog.
He inhaled sharply and hurried out as quickly as he could, water dripping from his skin as he put on the first shirt he could find. His fingers fumbled with the buttons twice before he gave up and left it half-open.
By the time he reached Rosalia's cot, her entire face was blotchy. Tears and snot streamed down her cheeks in shiny trails.
Her mouth was stretched wide open in a silent scream.
Just like in the garden.
Rosinante's hands trembled as he lifted her. He held her against his chest and felt his mind sliding sideways.
Mashed peach smeared across her face. Laffitte's smile. The knife. Rosalia's silent wailing.
Fetal demise.
Rosalia whimpered against his chest.
Rosinante blinked hard, his eyes dropping to her tiny face.
His daughter is fine. She's here and she's fine.
She hasn't eaten in hours.
He quickly reached for the milk powder. Scooping. Pouring.
Moving through the motions like a puppet on fraying strings.
He shook the bottle so hard the milk frothed.
He cursed under his breath and set it down, bouncing Rosalia against his shoulder while he waited for the bubbles to disappear.
After a while, Rosalia let out another impatient cry.
He placed the bottle against her lips. She latched on desperately, drinking in hungry gulps.
His palm cradled the back of her head, fingers pressing against the skull.
Still solid. Still here. Still alive.
She finished faster than usual, making a soft, satisfied sound.
He placed her on her mat and stood there for a moment. Watching her and making sure her chest was still rising and falling.
He ran a clammy hand over his face and turned towards the cabinet.
His fingers found the back of the lowest drawer.
There it was. His stash, long abandoned. Tucked away the day he found out about the pregnancy.
He pulled out the half-empty pack of cigarettes and put it in his pocket before going to the balcony.
The evening air was cool against his damp skin.
He leaned against the railing and lit one with fingers that still wouldn't stop shaking.
The first drag was stale. The tobacco had gone flat from more than a year of sitting untouched. It tasted like dirt and dust, burning the back of his throat.
It did not matter.
He needed something to do with his hands. Something to do with his mouth.
He was still smoking when the Den Den Mushi rang.
Rosinante exhaled smoke through his nose and watched it disappear into the evening sky.
He let it ring.
A knock came at the door, striking low against the wood.
Rosinante knew it was Baby 5.
His eyes closed briefly. He knew why she was here.
The door pushed open despite him not answering.
"Cora-san." Her small head poked through the gap.
He gestured from the balcony for her to come in.
She stepped inside and sat beside Rosalia on the mat. Rosalia crawled towards her immediately and settled into her lap.
Baby 5 wrapped her arms around her without hesitation, resting her chin on the top of Rosalia's head.
She stared at Rosinante through the balcony doors.
She didn't bring up the smoking. Or the attack. Or the way his shirt was barely buttoned.
"Doffy called. He said you need to call him back."
Rosinante took the cigarette from between his lips and tapped the ash away.
"Is that all he said?"
"Yes." Baby 5 lowered her head to nuzzle her face against Rosalia's cheek. "I didn't tell him that you got stabbed, Cora-san. I told the rest not to say anything either."
Stabbed. Right. That's all she knew.
Rosinante took one last deep inhale.
It was a small mercy that no one else knew. Doflamingo hadn't announced the pregnancy yet. It had been too early, and he had left soon after. Mila and the kitchen staff were the only ones aware of it.
He flicked the cigarette over the railing before walking back inside.
"Thank you." He placed his palm on the top of Baby 5's head.
Baby 5's gaze dropped. It landed on his trousers, soaked dark red above the knee.
"Buffalo and Gladius captured him. He's in the execution room." She looked back at Rosinante. "They're keeping him alive until Doffy comes back."
A few hours later, the cramping started.
It began as a dull pain in his abdomen.
Then it sharpened.
Rosinante doubled over on the bed, both arms wrapping around his stomach. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
The pain radiated through his body in waves.
He pressed his face into the pillow and rode it out. Waiting for it to pass.
It didn't pass. The next wave hit harder.
A wrenching cramp that seized the muscles of his stomach and squeezed. His body curled in on itself instinctively, knees drawing up to his chest.
A broken sound escaped his throat.
He couldn't stay here. Not when he was completely unable to care for his daughter.
He lowered his legs over the edge of the bed. The moment his feet touched the floor, another cramp hit, turning his vision white.
He caught himself on the edge of the nightstand and waited for it to ease enough to move before staggering out of his room.
The corridor was dark. Everyone except the guards outside his room had retired for the night.
They stared as Rosinante limped down the hall, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed against his stomach.
He stopped in front of Mila's door, knocked twice, then rested his forehead against the frame.
Tears were already making their way down his face by the time he heard the bed creak and footsteps shuffling towards the door.
Mila opened the door in her nightdress. Her hair loose, eyes still heavy with sleep.
Then she saw his face and woke up completely.
"Cora-san—"
She reached for him before he could speak. Her arm hooked around his waist, taking some of his weight.
Rosinante hadn't realized how much he'd been leaning against the door frame until she pulled him off it.
"Mila." His voice came out strained. "Could you—could you please spend the night with Rosalia. Just for tonight—"
"Of course."
"I'm sorry." Rosinante's hand gripped her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know it's late, I—"
"Cora-san." Mila's voice was firm. "It's completely fine. I'll take care of Lady Rosalia."
"Thank you," he whispered.
She gently let go of him and stepped back into her room to change.
Rosinante pressed his hand flat against the wall and breathed, gathering the strength to continue down the corridor.
He pushed Doflamingo's bedroom door open and caught the scent immediately.
It was faint now, barely there after Doflamingo had started sleeping in his room. Only a trace clung to the sheets.
Rosinante's legs gave out and he collapsed onto the bed.
His fingers twisted into the sheets, pulling them towards him.
Another cramp rolled through him. His back arched and he shoved his face into Doflamingo's pillow, breathing in what was left of him.
His mouth opened against the fabric as another wave hit.
No sound came out. Just his breath, ragged and wet, soaking into the cotton.
He clutched his stomach with both hands.
As if he could hold everything together. As if he could stop his body from destroying what was already dead.
When Rosinante woke up, he couldn't open his eyes.
The tears had crusted them shut overnight. A tight film sealing his lashes together.
He raised his fingers and carefully dug the crust away, nails scraping against the delicate skin at the corners of his eyes until they cracked open.
The room was bright. The sunlight falling across his face was too harsh.
Rosinante turned to face away from the windows.
The cramping was still there. But duller now and much more manageable.
He stayed on the bed for a while longer, until the pressure in his lower abdomen became impossible to ignore.
He got up and hobbled to the bathroom to use the toilet.
Rosinante kept his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.
Didn't look down.
Didn't look at the water.
Didn't look at the colour of what his body was passing.
He just stared at the smooth white wall until it was over.
By the time he felt well enough to return to his room, it was already late in the afternoon.
Mila was in the chair by the window. Rosalia was asleep on her chest, her face pressed into Mila's shoulder, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of her dress.
At the sight of him, she immediately shifted to stand.
“Cora-san—”
“Sit,” Rosinante insisted. “Please.”
She settled back down.
He walked over and stood beside her, looking down at Rosalia sleeping peacefully.
“Thank you,” he said. “And I'm sorry for last night.”
“Cora-san, there is no need for apology,” Mila replied softly. “I hope you're feeling better now.”
Then the Den Den Mushi rang. Rosinante snapped his fingers, and it fell silent.
“It rang this morning as well.” Mila glanced towards the vibrating Den Den Mushi. “I did not answer. It was not my place.”
“That's fine, Mila. You did the right thing.”
Rosinante reached out to take Rosalia.
Mila hesitated, still holding Rosalia firmly.
“Cora-san, are you certain—”
“Mila, please. I am better now. Go back to your room and rest. I have troubled you enough.”
She nodded and rose from the chair.
“It was no trouble at all. Lady Rosalia slept through the night.”
She gently transferred Rosalia into his arms before leaving the room.
Rosalia barely stirred, just nuzzled into Rosinante's chest and let out a small sigh.
He pressed his forehead against her face. Her fever had gone down.
Then he sat down on the chair and didn't move for a long time.
The next few hours passed in a haze.
Rosalia woke up. He fed her. Changed her. Put her on her mat with her toys. She babbled and played and crawled in small circles.
He could only watch her from the chair, eyes half-focused as he answered her noises with mumbles of his own.
Every few hours, the cramping would suddenly sharpen.
Rosinante would limp to the bathroom.
Each time, the same routine.
Stand over the toilet. Keep his eyes on the wall. Don't look down.
And each time, the thought would surface.
There was less of his baby inside him now.
Less of what was left of his flesh and blood.
Which was ridiculous.
The baby was dead. There was nothing left to hold onto.
This was no longer his baby. Just tissue that his body was slowly breaking down and flushing away.
At one point, he could no longer help himself.
He looked down.
Bright red, swirling in the water. So much of it.
His hand flew to his mouth.
He tried to hold it in. Tried to keep his jaw locked and his lips pressed tight and his stomach from turning inside out.
He couldn't.
His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, catching himself on his hands just in time. His stomach heaved violently before he started vomiting.
His whole body shook against the cold tiles.
Because that was his child.
And now his body was turning it into waste.
The calls kept coming in.
Three times a day at least. Doflamingo tried to reach him at all hours.
Mornings. Afternoons. Evenings. Nights. Dawns.
Rosinante silenced all of them.
After Baby 5, Gladius came by once to tell him Doflamingo expected him to call back.
Then it became the staff.
Then Mila.
Eventually, everyone stopped asking.
Dr. Tegata arrived on the morning of the fifth day.
Rosinante lay on the examination table wearing only his pants.
Dr. Tegata pressed along his bare stomach, listening with his stethoscope.
"Everything has been expelled," he said finally.
Rosinante swallowed and said nothing.
Dr. Tegata moved down to the thigh wound. He rolled up the pant leg and unwrapped the hardened bandages.
The wound was swollen, the surrounding tissue bruised a deep purple. The edges of the skin were inflamed and raw. The few remaining stitches were surrounded by crusted discharge.
It looked worse than when it was fresh.
"Rosinante." Dr. Tegata's voice was carefully controlled. "Have you been cleaning this wound?"
Rosinante didn't answer.
"Has the bandage been changed at all?"
"No."
Dr. Tegata's brows drew together. He took a slow breath and opened his bag, laying out fresh supplies. Gauze, antiseptic, a needle and thread for restitching.
He soaked a piece of gauze with antiseptic and pressed it to the wound.
The antiseptic stung and Rosinante's leg twitched involuntarily.
Rosinante exhaled slowly.
It felt good to finally feel something.
Dr. Tegata worked in silence, restitching the open wound with steady hands.
Then, without looking up, he spoke.
"Rosinante. I want you to understand something."
Rosinante's eyes stayed on the ceiling.
"The miscarriage. There was nothing you could have done."
"I could have stayed in my room," Rosinante whispered, eyes moving to stare directly at Dr. Tegata.
Dr. Tegata's hands paused for a fraction of a second before resuming.
"Your body had barely recovered from Rosalia's birth. The hormonal changes from the first pregnancy hadn't fully stabilized. The C-section scar was only five months healed. A second pregnancy this soon was always going to be high risk."
Rosinante looked away.
"Add to that the stress you were under. Your body was already struggling to sustain the pregnancy before the attack even happened." Dr. Tegata tied off a stitch and cut the thread. "The blood loss from the stab wound was the tipping point—"
Rosinante sat up and swung his legs off the examination table.
He grabbed his shirt and buttoned it on his way out, shutting the door before Dr. Tegata could say another word.
The next morning, Mila came in with Rosinante's breakfast.
Rosinante noticed immediately that something was wrong.
From the way her smile didn't reach her eyes when she greeted him. From the way she lingered beside the table before finally stepping away.
"Mila. Did something happen?"
"Nothing to worry about." She lifted Rosalia from the cot and settled her onto her hip. "Why do you ask, Cora-san?"
Rosinante caught the slight tremor in her hands.
"Mila, tell me. What is it?" Rosinante put his fork down.
Mila adjusted Rosalia on her hip. She drew a breath to speak, but it escaped as a shaky exhale.
"There's been word from the ship."
She smoothed the front of her apron and stepped closer to Rosinante, keeping her gaze lowered.
"They will reach the docks tomorrow morning."
Rosinante's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
His eyes moved to the Den Den Mushi.
It hadn't rung at all last night. Or this morning.
Then he turned towards the window. The weather was good. Thick white clouds drifted across the stark blue sky.
If the ship reaches the docks tomorrow morning, Doflamingo will certainly arrive before it.
Rosinante's throat tightened.
"Thank you, Mila."
It was well past midnight when Rosalia woke.
Rosinante was standing at the balcony, cigarette between his lips. It had burned down almost to the filter, ash hanging loosely from the end.
Her cries broke through the silence.
He dropped the cigarette and went to the cot, carrying her back to the balcony.
She quieted the moment Rosinante pulled her against his chest. A big gummy smile spread across her face as she reached up to pat his cheek with her tiny hand.
He couldn't smile back. He looked out at the dark sea.
Doflamingo was coming back.
Soon. Very soon.
He was going to walk through that door and the first thing he would do was look at Rosinante's stomach.
He would look for the bump that wasn't there.
And Rosinante would have to say it.
Out loud. To his face.
The baby is gone.
His entire body revolted at the thought of saying those words and watching Doflamingo's face change.
He went back into the room and set Rosalia down on her mat. She crawled towards her toy chest, happy and oblivious.
Rosinante took out the fabric cube and handed it to her before he sank onto the edge of the bed.
He should rehearse it.
Should figure out what to say. How to say it.
Should prepare himself for the way Doflamingo's voice would sound when he asked what happened.
Should prepare an answer for when Doflamingo asked why he didn't tell him.
Why he hid it from him.
Rosinante pressed his fist against his mouth.
What was he supposed to say?
He was scared. Scared of what? Of Doflamingo's reaction?
No.
Rosinante was scared because saying it out loud would mean it happened. That it was real.
That there had been a baby and now there wasn't.
As long as he didn't say it, he could pretend it wasn't true.
His eyes burned, vision already turning blurry.
He didn't want Doflamingo to look at his stomach and see emptiness.
He didn't want Doflamingo to grieve.
Because if Doflamingo grieved, then it was truly over.
And Rosinante had been pretending, in some small, desperate, irrational corner of his mind that all this wasn't real.
Every night he would pray before he fell asleep that he would wake up and all this would have been a sick nightmare.
He'd open his eyes and the morning sickness would still be here. And the heartbeat would still be there. And Dr. Tegata would place the stethoscope on his stomach and say everything was developing well.
But Doflamingo was coming back.
And Rosinante couldn't pretend anymore.
His shoulders curled forward. His palms covered his face.
The sob that tore out of him was ugly and raw.
Rosalia turned at the noise. Her cube forgotten.
She stared at Rosinante with wide, uncertain eyes. Her lower lip trembling as she crawled towards him.
Her small hand landed on his foot.
Rosinante reached down blindly and pulled her onto his lap, holding her with both arms while he cried into her hair.