Page 192 of The Thief
Dylan Emmanuel Dellinger. Fifteen months and already showing his father's stubborn streak. He was named after Clodagh's brother, who was murdered by Emmanuel's father—another ghost given new life through love.
"And Henry?" Freddie asks, settling into the chair beside me with our son in his arms.
"Charming everyone in sight," I say, watching our year-old boy wave at a passing waiter. "He's got your smile and absolutely no fear of strangers."
Henry Stephen Kinnock. Named for the grandfather he'll never meet and the man who's become like a father to Freddie. He's got my eyes and Freddie's dark hair, plus a laugh that makes hardened criminals go soft around the edges.
"I wonder where he gets that from," Freddie murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple.
"Definitely his father."
The music changes, and couples begin moving toward the dance floor. Lorenzo spins Quinn in a slow circle, both of them laughing at something she whispers in his ear. Young love, new love, the kind that makes everything seem possible.
"That could be us," Maverick says to Lisa, offering his hand.
"If you can manage not to step on my feet," she replies, but she's smiling as she takes his hand.
They've been married six months now, and the honeymoon phase shows no signs of ending. Maverick's found his balance between leading the crew and being a husband. Lisa's found her place in our complicated world.
"Emmanuel's dancing with Clodagh," Jessica observes. "And holding Dylan. That man's got skills."
"Practice," Stephen says, wrapping his arms around his wife and daughter. "You learn to multitask when you marry into this family."
I watch our friends move onto the dance floor, each couple finding their rhythm. It's peaceful, this moment. Normal in a way our lives rarely are.
"Freddie," I say quietly, "I need to tell you something."
"What kind of something?"
"The good kind. I hope."
He turns to study my face, searching for clues. "Tríona?"
"I'm pregnant."
The words hang between us, and I watch his expression shift from surprise to wonder to pure joy.
"Pregnant," he repeats, like he's testing the word.
"About six weeks. I found out yesterday."
"Six weeks." He's still processing, one hand unconsciously moving to rest on my still-flat stomach. "Another baby."
"Are you happy?"
"Happy?" He lifts Henry Stephen higher in his arms and kisses our son's dark hair. "I'm fucking ecstatic."
"Language," I scold, but I'm laughing.
"Sorry. I'm very happy," he corrects, grinning. "Extremely, wonderfully, incredibly happy."
"Good. Because this one might be a girl, and you'll have to learn a whole new kind of terrifying protection."
"I'll manage."
"Famous last words."
From across the ballroom, I spot Vittoria sitting with her husband, Cesare, at the family table. She's holding Matteo, her almost two-year-old, who's clearly bored with the formal proceedings. Even from here, I can see her maternal instincts at work, keeping him entertained with quiet games and whispered stories.
