Page 83 of The Mafia King's Baby

I kiss her forehead gently. “Perfect. Simple and honest, like everything else we’re building together.”

I fall asleep with her hand in mine and our child safe between us, more content than I ever thought possible. In three months, at the longest, we’ll disappear into new identities and build the life for which we’ve been fighting. Until then, we have each other, and that’s enough to endure the time until we can be completely free.

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Celia

The contractions begin as sunset paints the whitewashed walls of our riad in shades of amber and rose. I’m standing in the courtyard, one hand resting on my swollen belly while the other trails through the fountain’s cool water, when the first wave grips me with surprising intensity. The sensation stops me mid-breath, and I have to grip the fountain’s edge until it passes.

Four months in Morocco have transformed this place into home in ways I never expected. The renovated riad sprawls around its central courtyard like something from a dream, all carved cedar and painted tiles, with rooms that catch the morning light and hold the evening breeze. Our bedroom overlooks the Atlas Mountains, and on clear days, we can see all the way to the sea.

The scent of mint tea drifts from the kitchen where Fatima, our housekeeper, prepares dinner. She’s been with the property for decades, loyal to the previous owners and now to us, asking no questions about why a young American couple would choosethis remote corner of Essaouira for their new life. Her discretion has been worth more than gold.

Another contraction builds, stronger than the first, and I breathe through it the way Amina taught me during our weekly visits. Our midwife has become more than medical care over these months, bringing calm professionalism and gentle encouragement that transformed my anxiety about giving birth so far from Western hospitals into confidence in my body’s ability to do what women have done for thousands of years.

She’s also become a friend, blunting some of the loss of having to completely break contact with Gemma. It’s too unsafe, so she’ll have to be a friend from my past, though I wish I could reach out. Someday, when things are settled, and it’s safer, I’ll ask Yefrem to check on her through his discreet channels, but I’ve accepted I’ll never see her or Mrs. Patterson or silly little Sariah again.

The pain of that knowledge has eased between starting over in Morocco and having my mother nearby. I hate having to give up people in my past, but I’d do anything to protect my present and future.

Yefrem appears in the courtyard doorway as if summoned by instinct, his face immediately shifting to alert concern when he sees me gripping the fountain. “Is it time?”

I nod, surprised by how calm my voice sounds. “I think so. The contractions are regular now, about ten minutes apart.”

He crosses to me in three quick strides, his hands settling on my shoulders with the gentle strength I’ve learned to depend on. “How long have you been having them?”

I lean into his touch while another wave builds and crests. “About an hour. I thought they were just the practice ones Amina mentioned, but they’re getting stronger.”

He checks his watch and calculates timing with the precision he applies to everything involving my safety. “I’ll call Amina and your mother. They’ll both want to know labor has started.”

The relief in his voice tells me he’s been as anxious about this moment as I have, though he’s hidden it better. For weeks, he’s been checking and rechecking the emergency preparations, making sure we have backup plans for every possible complication. The nearest hospital is forty minutes away, but Amina has assured us that first babies rarely arrive with dangerous speed.

My mother has been living in the guesthouse at the property’s edge for the past three months, close enough to visit daily but far enough to give us privacy as a couple. The transition from her quiet life in Newton, Kansas to this exotic refuge in North Africa required major adjustments, but she’s embraced the adventure with surprising enthusiasm.

Amina arrives exactly twenty-eight minutes later, her assistant Yasmin following with medical supplies and the calm efficiency of women who’ve attended hundreds of births. The midwife examines me in our bedroom while Yefrem paces the courtyard below, and I hear his footsteps on the tile even through the gentle questions she asks about pain levels and contraction timing.

“Early labor but progressing well.” Amina’s French-accented English carries the kind of authority that immediately calms nervous parents. “The baby is positioned correctly, and yourbody is doing exactly what it should. This will take time, so we settle in and let nature work.”

Yasmin transforms our bedroom into a birthing space with clean linens, soft lighting from battery-powered lamps, and everything Amina might need arranged within easy reach. The preparations feel both medieval and thoroughly modern, like ancient wisdom enhanced by contemporary medical knowledge.

The hours that follow blur into a rhythm of contractions and rest, Yefrem’s steady presence beside the bed, and Amina’s calm guidance through each stage of labor. He holds my hand through every contraction and maintains the kind of focused attention usually reserved for life-or-death operations.

My mother arrives within the first few hours, bringing tea and quiet encouragement, and settling into a chair beside the window, where she can offer support without interfering with Amina’s work. Her presence adds another layer of comfort to the room as three generations of women work together to bring new life into the world.

“I remember when you were born.” She smooths my hair back during a brief respite between contractions. “Twenty-two hours of labor, and you came out screaming your objections to the whole process.”

The story makes me smile despite the pain. “Let’s hope this baby is more cooperative.”

As dawn approaches, the contractions intensify beyond anything I could have imagined. Amina monitors the baby’s heartbeat with a handheld device, nodding satisfaction at the strong, steady rhythm even as my body works harder than it ever has before.

“The baby is almost ready.” Her voice carries the excitement of someone who never tires of witnessing birth. “A few more pushes, and you’ll meet your son or daughter.”

Son or daughter. We chose not to learn the gender during our limited prenatal visits, wanting to preserve at least one surprise in a life that’s been meticulously planned for months. Now, as the final stage of labor begins, I wonder whether our child will have Yefrem’s dark eyes or my lighter coloring, whether they’ll inherit his strategic mind or my stubborn determination.

The urge to push becomes overwhelming, and Amina guides me through the final contractions with the kind of coaching that makes impossible effort feel manageable. Yefrem holds my hand and whispers encouragement in Russian. They’re mostly words I don’t understand but clearly carry love and support in every syllable.

Just as the sun peeks over the Atlas Mountains, visible through our bedroom window, our baby emerges into the world with a strong cry that fills the room with life and possibility.

“A son.” Amina lifts the tiny, perfect form for us to see. “A beautiful, healthy son.”

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