The Mediterranean was not a friend to the small boat. It was a churning, black throat that threatened to swallow us whole. Every time the bow slammed against a wave, the impact vibrated through my bones, a violent reminder of the fragile life I was carrying. I huddled against the inner bulkhead of the cabin, my hands clamped over my stomach, trying to shield my son from the chaos of his mother’s flight.Luca was a silhouette of iron at the wheel. He didn't look at me. He didn't offer a blanket ...