Page 161 of The Don’s Omega

By February his mood improves a little. He’s relieved that the nursery is finally ready. Elio chose the colors, a warm gray with white trim. I worried the color would be depressing, but the end result is inviting and yet sophisticated.

The due date is late March. It felt like the day would never arrive, but we’re close now. The stress grows with each passing day. I know I’ll feel better once the baby is here. Then I’ll be able to stop obsessively worrying about whether or not Elio will be safe during labor. I worry about the baby too, but Elio is always my priority.

By the end of February, the baby bag is packed by the front door. Dr. Vasquez is on speed dial. Our bed has so many pillows, I sometimes lose Elio in them as he sleeps. I’m distracted at work. Carlo is having to take on more things because instinct won’t let me leave Elio’s side. I never thought I’d be this kind of clingy alpha, but I won’t let Elio out of my sight. I feel anxious when I don’t have eyes on him, or when I can’t smell his scent.

I’m ready for this pregnancy to be over. I’m ready to meet our baby. Now all we can do is wait for the baby to make its appearance.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elio

Labor begins with a backache. Not the kind I’ve been living with for weeks, the dull constant complaint of an aching spine. This is different. Lower. Deeper. It wraps around from my back to my belly and then lets go. The real clue is that it’s not something I can sleep through.

I get out of bed, trying not to disturb Marcello, and go to the kitchen for some orange juice. What I’m feeling is definitely different, but until I know for sure that I’m in labor, I don’t want to wake Marcello.

I sip the juice and the pressure comes again, tighter this time. I set my glass down and grip the edge of the counter, breathing slowly through my nose. When the tightness passes I check the clock on the microwave. 6:14 a.m.

It could still be nothing more than Braxton Hicks. I’m not quite ready to say the word “contraction” out loud just yet. Saying it makes impending labor real. And even though I can’t wait to have the baby, I’m also terrified. I’ve seen enough birthing videos in the last few months to scare me.

When Marcello appears in the kitchen doorway in boxers and a T-shirt, his hair flat on one side, I feel relieved. I needed him to bounce ideas off of but hated disturbing him. But if he’s here of his own volition, then I don’t have to feel guilty.

“You’re having contractions, right?” He moves closer, his eyes fixed on me intently.

“How did you know?”

He grimaces. “I’m not sure. I just knew. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I felt bad disturbing your sleep.”

He scowls. “You think I care more about sleep than you having a baby?”

“No, but, I don’t know what the etiquette is. Don’t be mad. This is my first baby, remember?”

His face softens. “I’m not mad. I just want you to remember I’m a part of this. Okay? I want to be woken up, or disturbed as you might say. So how far apart are the contractions?”

“They may not be real contractions.”

“Okay,” he says patiently. “How far apart are the things you’re feeling that may not be contractions?”

“I didn’t officially time them, but if I had to guess, I’d say about eight minutes apart?”

“Let’s see what the doctor says.” He pulls out his phone and calls Dr. Vasquez. I hear her voice on the other end of the phone. She sounds calm.

Another contraction builds while he talks. This one feels like someone has wrapped a belt around my midsection and is slowly tightening it. Not sharp, just relentless. When it releases the relief swamps me. I’m also aware that these are nothing like real contractions. They’re much gentler. That knowledge does not comfort me.

“She says to wait until they’re five minutes apart or your water breaks,” Marcello says, hanging up. “Then we go to the hospital.”

“Okay, so we wait.”

“Yes.” He nods. “But I’m going to call Anthony and have him on standby. Then I’m calling the hospital to tell them to reserve us a private room. Their best room. I’m also going to wake Mama and my sisters so they can keep you company while I shower.”

“No, don’t wake them—”

“Shhh.” He holds up his hand, jaw set. “There’s no discussing this. We need help. This is a big moment. I’ll see if Carlo is available too.”

Marcello is so different from me. In this moment, my impulse is to curl in a ball and whimper in silence. He starts running contingencies in his head, and calling in reinforcements. This is how the don of the Foschini syndicate handles the onset of labor: like a military operation.

“Marcello.”