Chapter 23 #2
“You kidnapped my daughter,” he says through gritted teeth, each word forced out like it physically pains him.
“I did,” I acknowledge, because there’s no point denying it. “I kidnapped your daughter to avenge my brother’s murder. Gabriel. Remember him? The man you killed? So let’s not pretend you’re innocent in all this, Connor. You started this war. You made it personal. And now here we are.”
“That was business—”
“And this is personal,” I finish. “Your daughter. My child. We can keep killing each other’s people and destroying each other’s operations until there’s nothing left of either family. Or we can find a way to coexist. For their sake.”
I gesture to Emma. She’s watching both of us with those green eyes, her posture ramrod straight.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Connor stares at me for a long moment. Then his eyes drop to where my hand rests on Emma’s thigh, possessive and protective.
His jaw twitches again.
“Fine,” he spits out. “Let’s negotiate.”
We argue about medical care next. Connor insists on his doctors—specialists in Manhattan, the best money can buy, the ones who’ve been treating the Brennan family for decades.
I insist on mine—equally good, equally expensive, and with the added benefit of complete discretion about exactly who their patient is and who might want to use that information against us.
Emma interrupts both of us mid-argument.
“I’ll choose my own damn doctor,” she says firmly, cutting through our back-and-forth.
“Both of you can recommend whoever you want, but I’m the one who’s pregnant and I’m the one who gets to decide who’s poking me with needles and doing ultrasounds.
” She rolls her eyes and levels us both with a filthy glare.
“It’s a novel concept, I know—the woman making her own medical decisions. ”
Connor opens his mouth, probably to argue, and Emma holds up a hand.
“Also, Dad, I’d like to point out that Mom would be telling you the exact same thing right now if she were here. So maybe save us all some time and just accept that I’m capable of finding my own OB-GYN?”
Connor’s jaw works but he doesn’t argue. Even though Teresa Brennan is a wallflower, she would absolutely be telling her husband to back off and let Emma make her own medical choices.
I lean over to murmur in Emma’s ear, unable to help myself. “We’ll find someone you like. Promise. Someone who won’t ask too many questions about the bullet holes in my house.”
My lips just barely brush her temple. It could be an accident if anyone asked.
It’s not.
Connor’s chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts, clearly forcing himself to stay seated.
We argue about security next. Connor doesn’t trust my men to keep Emma safe, which is annoyingly understandable given that his assault managed to breach my outer defenses and make it all the way to the main hall. I don’t trust his men not to try kidnapping her back the first chance they get.
“She’ll have both,” Dante suggests from my right, trying to find a middle ground. “Santoro men and Brennan men. Mixed detail. That way everyone’s watching everyone else.”
“No,” Emma and I say simultaneously.
She and I eye each other before I start with, “I’m not having Brennan men in my house. Non-starter.”
“And I’m not being followed around by armed guards from two different families who hate each other,” Emma adds dryly. “Because that sounds like a fantastic recipe for more bloodshed. Maybe we can add some Molotov cocktails to the mix, really up the stakes.” She pantomimes shaking a shaker.
Dante winces. Luca actually coughs to cover a laugh.
Connor doesn’t find it funny. “This isn’t a joke, Emma.”
“Neither is the absurdity of this entire conversation,” Emma shoots back. “You want me to have bodyguards who might shoot each other over whose job it is to open doors for me? Hard pass.”
We eventually compromise on Santoro security, but with weekly reports sent to Connor so he can see exactly what we’re doing to keep Emma safe.
We also agree on video calls with Emma so he can verify she’s alive and well.
I also agree on unrestricted visitation rights so he can check on her himself whenever he wants.
Connor doesn’t like it. I can see it in his face, in the way his jaw keeps clenching and his hands keep flexing.
But he agrees.
Then we get to the baby.
“The child will be a Brennan,” Connor says flatly, like this is obvious.
“The child will be a Santoro,” I counter just as flatly.
“Brennan.”
“Santoro.”
Emma’s hand slaps the table hard enough that everyone jumps. “Are you two serious right now? The baby’s a blob of cells and you’re already fighting over what to call it?”
“Blob of cells?” I repeat, looking at her in disbelief.
“Our blob of cells,” she amends, realizing her error. “A very important blob. Future Brennan or Santoro or whatever. But still. Can we maybe wait until, I don’t know, I’m actually showing? Or we know if it’s a boy or girl? Or literally any point that’s not right now when I’m exhausted?”
Connor and I exchange a look. It might be the first time we’ve agreed on anything—Emma has a point.
“Both,” Emma continues, not waiting for us to respond.
“The baby will be both Brennan and Santoro. Hyphenated last name. Or we’ll figure something else out.
” She points a finger at her father and me, her face twisted into an adorable scowl.
“But you two don’t get to claim ownership of my child like it’s a piece of territory you’re negotiating over. Clear?”
“Clear,” I say, fighting back a smile at her tone.
Connor just nods, though he looks constipated.
My hand settles on her stomach again, wanting to needle the asshole some more.
Connor stands up abruptly, his chair scraping back. “I need air.”
One of his advisors follows him out. We hear him in the hallway, probably trying not to put his fist through a wall.
Emma twists in her chair and pinches my side. I wince. “Was that really necessary?”
I grab her hand and lace our fingers together before bringing our joined hands to my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.
Dante sighs heavily and looks up at the ceiling, as if looking for the answer to why he’s still working for me.
When Connor comes back ten minutes later, his jaw is still clenched but his hands are steadier.
We keep negotiating.
What happens if something happens to Emma? What happens if something happens to me? Who gets custody of the baby?
That conversation nearly ends in bloodshed. Connor’s hand drift toward his gun three times and one of his advisors actually touches his holster before Connor waves him off with a sharp gesture.
“If something happens to Emma,” Connor says dangerously, “the baby comes to me and Teresa. That’s final.”