Page 158 of Secret Baby for the Mafia Don
The surprise on her face transforms into something luminous.
It feels like a gift.
"You did all this?"
"I wanted to give you Christmas," I say simply. "A real one."
"It's perfect." The joy in her eyes makes me believe the magic of Christmas might actually be real.
I help her into her chair and then sit across from her.
Once her plate is filled with eggs and waffles covered in syrup, I ask, "How are you feeling?"
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass," she replies, but her eyes sparkle with affection rather than annoyance. "The baby and I are perfectly fine."
I always heard women felt sick early in pregnancy.
But maybe not Gabriella.
I reach across the table and take her hand. "You should see Dr. Bellini. He's the best obstetrician in New York.”
Gabriella's laughter fills the room. "Marco Calabresi, feared Mafia Don, already researching obstetricians." She squeezes my hand. "Should I expect armed guards at the delivery room door?"
"At least four," I reply without hesitation, only half-joking.
The thought of her vulnerable, of our child vulnerable, heightens every protective instinct I possess.
She shakes her head, still smiling. "And I suppose you'll want to interview the nurses personally? Background checks on the pediatrician?"
"That goes without saying." I smile back, enjoying the banter.
"You're impossible," she says, but her voice is tender.
"I'm thorough." I pour more hot water over her tea bag in her cup. "And when it comes to you and our child, I won't take chances. You two are my life."
Her expression softens. "I know. It's one of the reasons I love you."
The words still catch me off guard, not because I doubt them but because I'm still learning to believe I deserve them.
I reach for the small velvet box I'd slipped in my robe pocket.
This isn’t a Christmas present, but it’s the gift that matters.
I don’t want to wait a moment longer.
"I have something for you.”
“Time for presents already?” She claps with childlike excitement.
“This one is special.” I rise and move toward her, dropping to one knee.
This is how it’s done, right?
Her eyes widen as understanding dawns.
"I know this might seem rushed," I begin, opening the box to reveal the emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. "A week ago, I was still fighting against us. But nearly losing you, nearly dying, has a way of clarifying what matters."
The lights from the Christmas tree catch the diamond, sending fractured rainbows across her face. “Marco?—"
