Page 181 of Unruly

Cross was at the side of the bed, phone in hand. He pressed it to his ear, and held it there using his shoulder as he reached over to stroke Catherine’s cheek.

“It’s all right,” he told her. And then, “Yeah, Zeke, it’s Cross. Can you get over here right now? I need someone to take Cece because Catherine’s in labor.”

Another contraction hit.

That wasn’t even ten seconds after the last one ended.

And the pressure.

It came fast.

Hard.

Strong.

Undeniable.

Push, her body demanded.

Push, push, push.

She did.

Silently, fingers digging into bedsheets, and purely out of instinct. She pushed.

“Get off the phone,” she told Cross when she sucked in a gulp of air. “Get off the phone and catch this baby.”

Cross’s dark eyes flashed to her. “Babe—”

His words cut off when his stare followed her motions. Her hand was between her thighs, feeling the indescribable bulge of her baby’s head. Right there, that’s what had been happening in the tub, she realized. That’s what the burning sharp pain had been. Her baby moving down.

“I can feel the head, Cross,” she mumbled, pain saturating her senses. The pain was terrible—intense and burning and horrible—yet her mind was clear. “Just … oh, my God, help me.”

Catherine wasn’t entirely sure what happened after she got those few tearful, frightened words out. This was not how her birth had been planned—it was supposed to be her, a doctor, trained nurses, and a sterilized room with a nice little epidural to make things easier. She didn’t know what happened because the pain took over again, and her body demanded she act to make it stop.

Hands cupped her face, and dark eyes found hers through the haze.

Shh …

And, Breathe, Catherine.

You’re doing so great, babe.

Nazio Cross Donati came into the world quiet. He didn’t scream the halls down like his sister had done when she was born. No, his mother had done that for him. He came quietly, assuredly, slowly with a soft little hiccup and chubby pink cheeks. He came unknowing that his father would use his mother’s knife in her bedside drawer to cut his cord, or that his older sister had been watching from the bedroom doorway in silence because she never stayed in her own bed. He came into the world into waiting hands—his father’s hands.

Hands that already loved him.

Hands that had been waiting for him.

They finally knew, then, born in the very early morning hours of August twenty-ninth …

A boy.

Nazio Cross Donati.

Thirteen months later …

“Do a little twirl for me, baby,” Catherine said.