Page 118 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia Don

Tessa took her out to walk around the gardens to help speed things along before we head to the birthing center, and her doctor is going to be there waiting—per my demand rather than any actual, immediate needapparently—and I should be with my wife and not here in this stuffy fucking office when anything could be happening.

But I know what this is about.

My probationary period is almost up.

“How is she handling it?” Salvatore asks me casually, as if my life isn’t up for the taking while Ava is working on bringing in another to balance the scales.

“She’s ready for it to be over,” I say. “I think she liked it up until about the past month. Now she’s just miserable most of the time.”

Salvatore nods.

“Well, she’s almost there.”

“Which is why I need to be there and not here,” I interrupt, impatient. Salvatore’s gaze glimmers with something, almost amusement, and I get that annoyed feeling, like he’s just humoring me.

We both know nothing significant is going to be happening for a while, but that doesn’t keep the edge off.

“I won’t keep you, Nico. But we need to talk about your trial.”

“I’m not going to run from the trial, Sal,” I growl. Even if I should. Even if I should just take Ava and the baby and go as soon as we can, as soon as my baby is all cleaned up and pink and crying. We should head for the horizon and not look back.

“I know you won’t run from it, Nico. Because the trial’s already happened.”

Silence soaks into the room. I glance between them, my shoulders tensing. “What the fuck do you mean,” I breathe, anger stirring. I was supposed to be there for it. I should have had some chance to speak for myself, to defend everything I did. For the past six months, I have played by every rule. I tried to clean up every loose end I created. Ugly murders and attempts on my life, day after day of putting my head down and doing work, not causing any trouble, with only the thought of Ava and my baby in the front of my thoughts.

Marcel and I gaze at each other. I haven’t ratted on him. I never told them what he did, not anybody, and then he turns around and does this slimy, backhanded bullshit, taking votes in the dead of night.

And I can’t do a goddamn thing because my wife is about to give birth, and Ihaveto be there for her. I have to. They tied my goddamn hands.

“The deal, Nico, was that members of the family would vote to decide your fate. Taking into account everything that you had done, both for and against this family. Last night, I brought together a jury—of myself, Tessa, Cecilia, and Marcel.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. It should have beeneveryone. The children and wives of the traitors I killed. The people I used to know back in the old days. The new blood I haven’t gotten to know well. But now…

The meaning settles as Salvatore says, “The vote was unanimous. You’re pardoned.”

My thoughts stitch together slowly, pieces shuffling into place.

My gaze shifts between the two men, trying to rationalize it, to give words to it.

“You fixed the jury.”

“A few years too late,” Salvatore admits.

And God, that stings in my chest like a clean bullet, through and through.

I never thought I’d hear him say it. Never thought he would admit out loud that he didn’t try, but he does. It’s not an apology, but we aren’t the sort of men who dabble in apologies. Salvatore and I have never hugged each other in our whole lives. I’d say the closest I ever got was putting him in a headlock, and that’s not going to change today. But he holds out a hand, and we shake, and there’s a warmth there I’ve never felt before.

Even Marcel steps forward. We don’t shake hands, but he gives me a tiny nod and the cold, simple instructions:

“Go take care of my sister.”

In the movies, this whole thing takes maybe a minute of strategic sweaty-faced jump cuts and one big scream. Ava’s labor takeshour upon hour, and most of it is spent doing nothing. It’s not the grunting and pushing you hear about, it’s just suffering. Long and tedious suffering, one wave after the next.

Ava didn’t want to have the baby in a hospital unless she had to, and I didn’t want her having it at home where we’d be helpless if something went wrong, so a few months back, Tessa recommended the birthing center she used, which is reputedly the best of both worlds. She had nothing but good things to say about it until even I was convinced it was our best option.

In a private, floral-printed room with yoga balls and chairs and a bed, Ava and I slow dance around the room through her contractions. The nervous, anticipatory energy has burnt up now, and there’s a heavy intensity in the air. The girl rocks and groans in my arms as we sway, back and forth, back and forth, as I put a counter-pressure on the pain that sits low in her back.

I’m surprised how often we are alone. Nurses pop in from time to time, check how things are progressing, but for the most part it’s just me and her, eye to eye as she groans through the pain of bringing our baby into the world. It’s the most intense connection I’ve ever felt in my life.

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