Page 115 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

I take Ava to every doctor’s appointment and watch as professionals frown and hum over her condition, always trying to spin bad news into something palatable. Her blood pressure has come down since the ER visit, but it’s not in a safe range yet, and still needs frequent monitoring. And the ironic thing about her condition is that bad news makes it worse, and it feeds itself, anxiety into anxiety, like a cell dividing itself endlessly.

But the worst appointment is a routine one, where Ava her doctor sketch out the fine details of her delivery plan, and there on the paperwork, in black and white ink, like a binding contract, is the question: if the doctors are forced to make a choice between her or the baby, who should they prioritize? Who should they save?

Through all this, everything has been Ava’s call. Whatever she wants, whatever she thinks is best. Doctors, midwives, doulas—whatever the fuck that is—and natural or medicated or water birth or hypnosis, which sounds like a sham but what the actual fuck do I know, she could do it any way she wants. Except this question. She hesitates for half a second, and it’s half a second too long.

I reach over and take the pen out of her hand, circling the answer. The only answer.

She doesn’t fight me on it, and the doctor says it almost never comes down to a decision like that, but for the rest of the day, my head is hot static, and I’m completely useless. I think I’m hiding it just fine…until she asks me if I want her to drive us home.

For the rest of the day, she’s not out of my sight until she falls asleep, always exhausted now from the big task of just growing another person inside her.

Night birds croon as I walk out to the backyard, under the cover of night. I pass the pristine fountain, the water rushing clear and clean, with no memory of what happened there. I stop at the circle of white flowers. The blooms droop, fading with the season. On the plaque, Vinny’s initials are engraved into flat stone. His body rests somewhere else, but this plot is a reminder, maybe an apology. Vinny was the first of our family to ever be killed by a rival on our own property.

I bury my hand in my pockets and sigh.

“I’m gonna take care of her, alright?” I ask, feeling stupid for talking to a cold breeze. I’m no better than one of those crazies with doomsday signs standing on the street corners. I steel my shoulders and force myself not to walk away. “I’m going to marry her, Vinny. And I’m gonna give her as many babies as she wants. I just need the chance…and if you…if you have any connections, you know, any ties to some big boss upstairs, then uh, maybe just tell him, you know? Tell him what she’s like. How good she’s going to be as a mother. How much she’s fought for this. Just, uh. Put in a good word for her, alright? Tell him it’s not for me.” I add, ignoring the tightness in my throat, talking to something I barely fucking believe in. “Actually, you should probably just leave my name out of it completely.”

The self-awareness creeps in at the corners.

Fucking hell, I’m losing it.

I start to march off, but another thought brings me right back.

“And Vinny,” I add, turning back around, “I hope you find some ghost wife, and have ghost kids, or whatever the fuck you guys do. But when this is all over for all of us, and we all get where you’ve gone—I’m sorry, but this girl’s mine.”

35

Ava

My blood pressure, as it turns out, isn’t quite as high when I don’t have a dead man’s blood dried into the lines of my palms. Fancy that.

But it still isn’t perfect, even if it isn’t as dangerous, and it keeps everyone on their toes. My doctor’s appointments get more frequent, and my doctors more numerous. Nico insists on second opinions, until I have a veritable medical team listed as emergency contacts in my phone. I understand why he’s anxious, that this is his own trauma, and I do what I can to accommodate him and not fuss about it all too much.

The nightmares start eventually, but Nico is always there now, every night, to chase Thaddeus out of my head or to hold my hair back when my morning sickness decides to be night sickness, and the smell of food has nothing to do with it anymore.

I feel bad for Nico. I know new parents aren’t supposed to get much sleep, but our baby isn’t even born yet, and he’s already being kept up at all hours. But he never complains.

I know he’s still worried, and that he will keep worrying until the baby is delivered, so I abide by all his rules and work with all the experts brought in to monitor me. It’s almost funny how we slip right back into our old roles. Nico sets the rules, and this time, I am unquestionably good. Andfucking finally, so is he.

Nico doesn’t fight anymore. He still goes and watches the fighters, and he still has to go out sometimes in the dead of night, doing God knows what to God knows who, but he says he’s never getting in the cage again. It hurts a little to know that I’ve taken something he loved from him, but I’m hopeful that I can give him something he’ll love more.

He wears body armor these days, everywhere he goes. He tries to get me to do the same when we go out, but my belly and hormones just can’t stand it. Only six months in, and I’m uncomfortable enough without any Kevlar.

The discomfort is worth it by just how much Nicolovesseeing me pregnant with his baby. He’s always showering me in affection, kissing my belly and talking to our baby as if it can hear and understand its daddy’s every word.

He tries to conspire with the baby to make it kick until I have to shoo him away before I get all bruised up. He says he’s just getting an early start on teaching the baby how to fight, and I tell Nico he can teach the baby to fight once it’s his ribs and organs being used as punching bags. He agrees, but the baby kicks regardless, from those soft fluttering moments it first figures out how, and never really stops unless it’s asleep.

“You don’t have a knife on you, do you?”

I glance up to find Nico in the doorway of our under-construction nursery. He’s been out with Salvatore and Marcel, and he has flecks of blood on his hands and shirt, and his face is grim and serious. Immediately, my heart kicks into my throat, but he pulls me into his arms and tells me it isn’t his. I shudder as he kisses the top of my head.

“Jesus Christ, Nico…”

“You didn’t answer. Knife or no knife?”

I double take, patting the pockets of the maternity outfit I have finally given into wearing. “What, why? No knife.”

“Good. Because I’m kidnapping you.”

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