Page 46 of Mafia Boss' Surprise Baby

“It was my great grandmother’s,” I tell her. “Her name was Mary Brigid O’Halloran, called Molly. My grandpa told me the story when I was a kid. Molly was a kitchen maid in a squire’s house in County Meath. The cook got sick, Molly took over and cooked for a dinner party after a hunt. Her skill got the attention of the widowed squire and he was smitten from the moment they spoke. They were married as soon as he could have this ring made—emerald to match her Irish eyes, my grandpa said.”

“So your great grandpa hooked up with his employees too,” she teases and a laugh breaks from me.

“I didn’t see that coming, but yeah. Guess it runs in the family.”

“It sounds like a great love story. Molly makes a good roast pheasant or meat pie or something and gets to marry the squire and be the lady of the house. Lives happily ever after.”

“Hardly,” I say. “He was thrown by his horse and broke his neck when she was pregnant with my grandpa. She was a widow before she even had the baby. She was left to manage the estateuntil his older son came of age. Then the son kicked her and his half-brother out of the house and she came to America.”

“Wow, that took an ugly turn. I’m surprised she didn’t have to sell the ring.”

“She did. My grandpa started working the docks when he was fourteen and got a hand in on some smuggling work. He used his first big payout to buy her ring back from the pawnbroker. Molly was remarried by then so she told him to keep it for his bride. We’ve passed it down ever since. Now I’d be honored if you’d wear it.”

“Promise you won’t get thrown by a horse or something before our baby comes,” she says and it doesn’t come out lightly.

“I’m not going anywhere, Katie. I want you to wear this ring, be my wife. If you don’t like it because of the way things turned out for Molly, I can get you a different ring.”

“No, I want this one. It’s beautiful and it has a story behind it.” She studies the ring, the big dark emerald flanked by narrow diamonds on a platinum band. I slip it on her finger and kiss her lips softly.

“Yes,” she says, “I want to be your wife.”

“Name the day and you’ll be Mrs. O’Halloran,” I promise.

“Tomorrow,” she says with a grin.

“You don’t want a wedding?’

“I want to be your wife and take your name. I don’t care about the rest.”

“Can you hold out till Saturday? I want you to have a dress, a cake, make an occasion out of it.”

“As long as you’re not stalling so you can try to book Jackie Chan to sing at the ceremony or something,” she says. I laugh and kiss her.

It’ll be a wedding to remember, I’ll make sure of it. In the meantime, I pour the sparkling cider and make a toast to us.Then I ask her to dance with me on our roof deck under the stars. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment.

26

KATE

As miserable as I was at the beginning of my pregnancy, the rest seems to fly by in a flurry of activity. I complete my CPA exams the week before the baby is due. By that time, I spend most of my time with my swollen feet propped up listening to audiobooks and trying to teach myself to crochet. I get this idea that I want to make a hat for the baby. It’s easier said than done, and after about nine attempts, I decide that a blanket will be easier.

I’m surrounded by a tangle of soft yellow yarn working at my pitifully small start on a baby blanket when my water breaks. The security team bundles me and my bag into a car and I’m at the hospital in minutes. Mickey and Rory arrive hot on my heels and I’ve never seen the cool and unbothered king that is my husband so beside himself. He keeps going to the nurse’s station asking when the doctor will check my progress and when I can get an epidural. He has a literal copy of my birth plan in his hand the whole time. I finally laugh and tell him to calm down before he gets kicked out of the maternity unit.

I’m excited and nervous, every contraction taking my breath away with its knot of shocking pain. I grip his hand and he kisses my head, breathes through it with me. I tell him I love him abouta thousand times. When the doctor comes in, she tells me there’s good news and bad news. “Good news is you’re progressing naturally and the heartbeat sounds strong. Bad news is you don’t have time for an epidural. It’s time to push.” The nurses help me put my legs in the stirrups and Mickey holds me up, supports me as I bear down.

In three pushes, our baby girl is here, screaming and red-faced and beautiful. I burst into tears as I fall back against the bed. They lay her on my chest and I kiss her dark damp curls. Mickey’s big hand touches her back as lightly as a feather, so gently and wonderstruck.

“Molly Pearl O’Halloran,” I say, “we’ve been waiting for you.” I meet my husband’s eyes and see his shining with tears.

“I love you,” he says to me, and I feel the swell of love in my heart as I cherish the weight of our seven-pound baby on my chest.

“I love you both,” I say.

“She’s perfect,” he says, touching her tiny fist with one finger. She opens her hand and grips his finger. I watch his face as he plummets into helpless adoration for our daughter. “She’s got a grip.”

“She’s strong like her daddy,” I say fondly.

“Strong like both of us,” he tells me and kisses my lips. It is the most perfect moment there’s ever been and I’m the luckiest woman.

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