Chapter 23 #3
“If something happens to Emma,” I say just as dangerously, “the baby stays with me. Their father.”
“Their grandfather—”
“Their father,” I repeat firmly. “Who loves them. Who will raise them. Who will make sure they know everything about their mother.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Emma says loudly, cutting through our argument and looking at us in disbelief.
“Can we please not plan my funeral while I’m sitting right here?
It’s morbid and also kind of insulting. I literally just escaped a panic room and survived a war zone.
I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.”
“We have to discuss this,” Connor says impatiently.
“Then discuss it hypothetically without using phrases like ‘when Emma dies,’” she interrupts. “Try ‘in the unlikely event’ or ‘if something were to happen.’ You know. Like normal people who aren’t actively trying to stress out a pregnant woman.”
She has a point, but we hash it out anyway because we need to.
Custody arrangements if one or both of us dies.
Godparents. Education. Which family traditions the baby will be raised with.
Where they’ll go to school. Whether they’ll learn the family business from the Brennan side, the Santoro side, or both.
It’s exhausting. Every compromise feels like pulling teeth.
But every time Connor looks ready to walk—to stand up and say fuck this and restart the fighting—he sees it.
Emma’s hand resting on her stomach. A reminder that there’s more at stake here than pride or territory or revenge.
There’s a baby. His grandchild. Emma’s child. My child.
And he stays.
I use that to my advantage. Every time the conversation gets heated and Connor looks like he’s about to flip the table and pull his gun, I touch Emma.
My hand on her shoulder when we’re arguing about the southern ports.
My fingers brushing her hair back when Connor’s voice starts rising about medical decisions.
My palm on the small of her back when he’s demanding weekly visits.
And every single time, Connor’s eyes track the movement. His jaw clenches. His hands flex on the table. That muscle in his temple jumps.
But he sees Emma’s hand on her stomach and how she leans into my touch instead of pulling away and he doesn’t walk.
After what feels like an eternity and we’ve argued ourselves hoarse, after Dante has refilled the water glasses three times and Luca has left twice for bathroom breaks that I’m pretty sure were actually just escapes, we reach an agreement.
Emma stays with me. No debate, no negotiation, no exceptions. She’s mine and I’m keeping her. End of discussion.
The baby will have access to both families and will be both Brennan and Santoro. They will grow up knowing both sides of their heritage and family legacies. Hyphenated last name to be determined. Visitation rights for both families. Holidays split between us.
The Brennans get guaranteed access to the southern port territories we’ve been fighting over. There will be no interference from Santoro operations and the trade routes that go with them.
It’s a significant concession. Those ports are worth millions, but Emma and the baby are worth more.
And in exchange, Connor calls off any retaliation. No more attacks. No more attempts to take Emma back. No more war between our families.
With one exception.
We stand to shake hands on the deal. Emma stays seated. She’s exhausted, I can see it in the slight slump of her shoulders and how her eyes droop, but the rest of us rise.
Connor’s advisors. My men. And Connor and me, facing each other across the oak table.
“If you ever hurt her,” Connor says quietly but the tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“If you make her unhappy for even one second. If I find out you’ve laid a hand on her in anger, if she’s not safe, if she’s not happy, if she calls me crying because you’ve done something to break her heart—”
He leans forward slightly, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that would make most men flinch.
I hold his gaze, and I don’t flinch or look away. I refuse to show even a flicker of the very reasonable fear that any sane person would feel at that kind of promise from Connor Brennan.
“I have carte blanche to end you in whatever way I see fit,” Connor continues, each word deliberate and measured.
“Slowly. Painfully. In front of everyone you love. Your mother and sister can watch. Every single one of your men can watch while I take you apart piece by piece. And when I’m done, I’ll make sure Emma sees what’s left so she knows exactly what happens to people who hurt her. Do we understand each other, Santoro?”
He extends his hand.
I take it.
We shake. His grip is crushing. Bruising. His hand squeezes mine so hard I feel bones grind together.
Mine matches it, and neither of us backs down.
I meet his gaze steadily and speak with complete honesty. “If I make her unhappy—if I hurt her or fail to keep her safe or do anything that breaks her trust in me—you won’t have to kill me, Connor. I’ll do it myself.”