Three #2
My brothers are on the floor, Amelia is crawling around. I notice that suddenly everything she can touch has been put up high. She’s giggling—really giggling—and the sound melts something inside me I didn’t even know was frozen.
Gianna rises from the couch and gives me a warm hug. “How are you doing,” she asks.
“This is a lot to take in,” I mutter. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
She squeezes my arm. No judgment, just quiet sympathy.
I never thought I wanted to be a father. But now that she’s here, I know one thing with absolute certainty. I will never let Amelia grow up wondering if she’s loved.
The dining table’s been cleared, and the guys have spread out the cold takeout—Mexican, with enough food to feed a small village.
We pass Amelia around like a football, eating bites of burrito and sharing childhood stories in between.
Rebecca works her magic and eventually gets Amelia to settle down in the guest room on the floor.
The apartment, somehow, feels less like a disaster zone and more like a home.
And for the record? I finally know how to put on a diaper.
Turns out, I’d been using Scotch tape, not the Velcro tabs. And I was putting them on backward. Rebecca was kind but firm as she corrected me, like she was teaching a kindergartener, which, honestly, is about where I’m at in the parenting department.
Still, I count it as a win.
“What are you going to do?” Dante asks later, wiping his hands on a napkin.
I exhale. “I don’t know yet. She put me on the birth certificate. I’ll do a paternity test. I’ve always been careful. Always made sure things were handled, so if she is mine…” I trail off. “Then I need to man up.”
Dante nods. “Daniel Peters is sending someone over to check paternity. They should be here soon. We’ll get it confirmed. If it’s a scam, we’ll shut it down.”
I don’t know the mother, and she doesn’t look familiar. I can’t be sure this isn’t some kind of ploy to get at my bank account, but I’ve heard the stories. I just nod. “Yeah.”
“She didn’t lawyer up?” he asks.
“No. No threats. No demands. I don’t even bring women back here, so she must’ve tracked me down some other way.”
We settle in front of the TV, a Premier League game playing low in the background. For the first time since Amelia arrived, the apartment is quiet. Still. I close my eyes, just for a second—and crash. Hard.
I don’t know how long I’m out. Might’ve been minutes. Might’ve been hours.
But when I wake, Amelia’s crying again.
Gianna’s already moving. She picks her up and bounces her like she’s been doing it for years.
“You’re going to need a nanny,” she says over Amelia’s tiny whimpers. “Emerson and Dillon had one. I’ll text and find out where they found her.”
“She probably needs a pediatrician too,” Rebecca adds as she walks back into the room. “We don’t know her medical history. No idea what vaccines she’s had or if she’s even had a check-up.”
Before I can answer, my phone rings.
The doorman.
“There’s a med tech here for you,” he says.
Minutes later, she steps off the elevator, all business. No small talk. Just a quick swab of my cheek, then Amelia’s. “You’ll get the results within the hour,” she says, packing up.
Sometimes, being a Marino is exhausting—media, expectations, family legacy.
But today, I’m grateful.
Money can’t fix everything, but it can fast-track answers.
We move in slow motion, all of us. Waiting. Watching. The air feels thick, like molasses. We don’t say much.
Because we’re waiting for confirmation of something I already feel in my bones.
She’s mine.
When the ping hits my phone, the entire room stills.
The TV volume drops. All eyes shift to me.
My chest tightens as I open the email.
What if she’s not mine?
Could I really hand her over to the system? To Willow who just left her with my doorman?
Could I let her go?
I scan the message. My throat tightens.
“It’s confirmed,” I say softly. “Amelia Marino is mine.” The words settle in my chest like a final puzzle piece snapping into place. My breath shudders. My world—tilted, spinning, upside-down—suddenly aligns.
Relief sweeps through the room. Smiles. Laughter. Someone exhales.
And suddenly, it hits me like a freight train.
I’m responsible for someone now.
Really responsible.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I slip down the hallway before anyone sees my eyes start to sting.
As I pass the guest room, I hear giggling.
I stop. Lean in. And peek inside.
Amelia’s lying on the floor, chewing on her knuckles, kicking her feet, and smiling like she owns the world.
“Hey, you,” I whisper.
She lights up when she sees me.
I’m hers. Completely.
I scoop her up and carry her back to the living room. Everyone’s sprawled out, sipping from my twelve hundred dollar bottle of scotch like it’s Gatorade. Rebecca steps out of the bathroom, which explains how they are getting away with drinking.
Luca grins and lifts his glass.
Bastards.
“I guess this changes a few things,” he says.
“No kidding.” I glance down at Amelia, who’s now gnawing on my shirt collar. “I’ll need a few days to figure things out.”
Gianna reaches for her. “Count me in for babysitting duty,” she says, taking Amelia from my arms and bouncing her on her hip until that sweet laugh returns. “I already spoke to Emerson Healy. She and Dillon are on their way. They’ve got advice.”
“Great,” I mutter, more sarcastic than I mean to be. But honestly, I am grateful.
While my brothers polish off the rest of my scotch, I start tidying up. The mess isn’t as overwhelming now. Or maybe I just care less. My family’s here. And they’ve got my back.
Now, if I could just get eight hours of sleep, I can do anything.
Luca glances up. “So…what happened with Ellory Matisse?”
Ellory.
Oh, God.
I groan. “We had lunch. She’s stunning. Smart. Charming. The kind of woman you actually want to spend time with.”
“You said she bought Night to Remember ?” Dante asks, pulling me back from my fantasy.
I nod. “She wants to launch some Olivier designs for a rough diamond jewelry line to pair with the dress. Launch it as part of a campaign.”
Dante leans forward, eyes gleaming. “That could change everything. Since the fashion show we’ve seen mostly notions and trims suppliers. This will put Amal into the ground.”
Dante met the founder and CEO of Amal, Aryanna Karimi, at a wedding over a year ago, and although they seemed to hit it off, she failed to tell him she was starting a competing business.
Luca has indicated that she milked Dante for all the information she could get about Luster.
And it’s their mission to beat her at every turn.
Luca looks just as intrigued. “When are you seeing Ellory again?”
“I was hoping she’d meet me for dinner. She wouldn’t commit. Wants to keep it professional, just an office meeting.”
“There’s no fun in business,” Luca warns. “Don’t mess this up.”
Says the guy who is a confirmed bachelor.
“I’ll reach out,” I say. “See when she’s free. I figured the four of us could—”
“Maybe just you and Dante to start,” Gianna cuts in, diplomatic as ever.
I nod.
Fair enough.
“I just need sleep,” I mutter.
Right on cue, my phone rings. The doorman.
“Emerson and Dillon Healy just arrived,” he says.
“Send them up.”
I head to the door with Amelia in my arms, expecting maybe a bag or two. When the elevator opens, I freeze.
It’s packed.
“Oh my God.”
Emerson stands in the middle, surrounded by towers of toys, neatly folded baby clothes, what looks like a boxed crib, and a bunch of gear I don’t even recognize.
“What is all this?” I ask, already overwhelmed.
Dillon rolls his eyes behind her, and I can’t help but grin.
Emerson steps forward and takes Amelia. “Gianna told me everything. I called the boutique we used for the twins and told them you had a baby dropped in your lap. This is the starter kit.”
My brothers swarm the elevator like it’s moving day. Dillon cracks open a toolbox, and before I know it, he and the guys are assembling the crib in the guest room.
Meanwhile, Emerson plants herself at the kitchen island and pulls out a folder.
“Okay. First, call these preschools this week to get Amelia on the waiting lists.”
“Preschools?” I blink. “She’s not even one.”
“You’d be shocked how competitive it is,” she says, flipping to the next page without missing a beat.
She’s off and running—routines, enrichment classes, her favorite pediatrician, top-rated nanny cams. I nod along, catching maybe half of it. Gianna’s taking notes, thank God.
In the guest room, my brothers are swearing like sailors.
“These damn instructions are in ancient Greek,” Dante mutters.
But somehow, they get it done. The crib is up and actually looks sturdy enough to survive the night.
Victory.
Emerson pulls a card from her back pocket and hands it to me. “Call this agency first thing tomorrow. They’re expecting you. Three vetted nanny candidates ready for interviews.”
Once the Healys leave, Rebecca ushers my sister and brothers out like a seasoned general shooing kids off to camp. Amelia starts fussing again.
“She’s overstimulated,” Rebecca murmurs, gently bouncing her. “How about I stay in the guest room tonight? Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the to-do list. One step at a time.”
I nod, too tired to argue and more grateful than I can say.
I’ve always been thankful for Rebecca. She was barely twenty when our parents died—newly married, still finding her footing—and she stepped up to raise four boys and a baby girl without hesitation.
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Tomorrow will be better.”
I glance at the clock. The light outside has shifted, amber and soft, the trash is overflowing with take-out containers, and bottles stacked in the sink. It’s not perfect. It’s not peaceful. But for the first time, it feels possible.
It’s already tomorrow.
And it’s shaping up to look a lot like today.