Page 82 of Fatal Sloth

Epilogue

A few months later

"Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?" I ask, a little concerned about leaving her home alone.

"I’ll be fine," Mia assures me with a grin, her fork dipping into the whole Torta Caprese while she sits in the living room with her feet up. She licks the chocolate off the fork, making my dick beg to come out, as I watch her tongue swirl around the silver.

Damn, I've never been so envious of cutlery before.

Mia is nine months pregnant and due in just two weeks. She has never looked more beautiful with her swollen belly. Feeling our baby kick when I talk to him, it's a feeling like no other. Although I refer to it as him, we've decided to keep the gender a surprise, per Mia's request. And anything my Piccolina wants, she gets.

I hate the thought of leaving her, but tonight is important. Plus, it's only for a few hours. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Mia filled me in on the situation with Karen and her dad.The mere thought of those assholes makes my blood boil, and everything in me wants to tear them apart. But Mia asked me to hold back—to resist the urge to treat them the way they treated her. It took every ounce of self-control not to hunt them down and make them pay for what they did to her. Instead, we made a pact for no contact, especially during her pregnancy. It wasn't easy to let them off so leniently, but for Mia and our child, I’d go to any length to ensure their well-being.

She gives me a devilish grin, knowing damn well what she's doing. "Punish me now, and I’ll punish you later," I growl.

"Can't wait," she replies with a smirk, setting her plate down and walking over to me. Our lips crash together in a fiery kiss before I bend down to press my lips against her swollen belly.

Just then, Dad walks in. "There’s my favorite daughter," he says, making a beeline right to Mia for a hug. They've really bonded over the last few months, and he’s very excited to be a grandpa. Who would have guessed that my dad was such a sucker? This baby is going to have him wrapped around their little finger.

This is the moment, the apex of my existence—the moment I claim the title of Don, the boss.

Shadows dance around the room, cast by the six other dons of La Cosa Nostra Commission, the only light coming from the flickering candles that line the ancient altar.

Beside me stands my old man, stoic and unyielding, as he places the sacred capo upon my head. It's a torch pass, a power shift from one generation to the next—a legacy I'm prepared to carry on.

We're facing a plain wooden table holding only a dagger, a gun, a lighter, and a Saint's image on cardboard. As the ceremony unfolds, pride surges through me. This isn't just for show. It's an oath to my blood and heritage.

My old man holds my hand out, cutting my trigger finger, while Cal holds out the Saint's image below. I watch my blood drip onto the image before Cal ignites it, then places the burning image onto my cut hand.

My father's voice echoes, heavy with tradition. "Sebastiano Morelli," he states, "do you swear to uphold our family's honor and integrity? Do you swear to protect our interests and lead with wisdom and compassion?"

"I do," I declare. This is my moment, my chance to show everyone what I'm made of.

"La famiglia e tutto," they all chant, and as the image turns to ash in my hand, I raise it high, letting the remnants fall. I'm not just Sebastiano Morelli—I'm the don, the boss, and I'll do whatever it takes to lead my family to greatness—la famiglia e tutto.

As the ceremony comes to an end, I'm engulfed in a sea of embraces and well-wishes from The Commission. Their words of support fuel my resolve, reminding me of the responsibility I've taken on.

Looking at the faces of those who stand before me, I feel a fire burning inside me. This isn't the end. It's just the beginning.

With the ceremony behind us, we raise a glass of whiskey to our future success. But as the last drop burns down my throat, my phone buzzes violently in my pocket. I snatch it out, my heart racing as I read the message.

"Everything okay, son?" Dad asks, sounding concerned.

"Mia's in labor, I gotta go!" I shout, adrenaline coursing through me as I bolt for the door. Dad is right behind me, hot on my heels. The guys erupt in cheers and hoots, sending me off with their support.

We jump in the car, and I drive as fast as I can, reaching the hospital in record time, just as they're pushing Mia into her room. I sprint toward her, clutching her hand tightly while Dad waits in the family room with Marie.

With each contraction, Mia's grip on my hand becomes iron-tight, and her knuckles are turning white from the grip she has on me. The pain wracks her body mercilessly, each wave crashing over her. I clench my jaw while she squeezes the life out of my hand.

Damn, she’s strong.

I stand here feeling helpless, my heart breaking with every look of pain that crosses her face. I'd give anything to take her pain away, to protect her from the agony tearing through her. But all I can do is offer ice chips and stand here, holding her hand. I’ve never felt more useless in my entire life.

When the doctor enters the room smiling, I want to smack the grin off his face while he’s checking the machines, showing her and the baby's heart rate.

A scream pierces the air, and I step forward, my hand instinctively reaching for the gun tucked into my waistband. "Are you hurting her?" I growl. "Make the pain stop,” I order, my gun pointed right at his face, which isn’t smiling anymore.

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