46. Kate
Kate
I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand curved over the soft place where the baby was already growing, the other gripping the cheap black burner so hard my knuckles ached. Outside, the woods were still. Inside, my pulse was anything but.
I hit the only number saved on the phone.
It rang twice.
“Yeah?” Brett’s voice came through rough, like he’d been awake too long or was mid-cigarette. Probably both.
I exhaled. “It’s me.”
A beat of silence. Then, lower, sharper: “You good? You hurt? Someone on your ass?”
“I’m fine.” I swallowed. “I need to tell you something. And I need you not to yell. Or hang up. Or start planning three different murders.”
Another pause. I could practically hear him frowning through the line.
“Spit it out, sugar. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m pregnant.”
Dead air.
Then Brett laughed—one short, disbelieving bark. “Wait. Pregnant. Like… for real pregnant?”
“For real,” I said softly. “Mine and Michael’s. About seven weeks. It happened in Vegas.”
Silence stretched so long I checked the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Rougher. “You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.”
I heard him move—chair scraping, maybe standing. A long exhale that sounded like it hurt.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Then, softer, almost to himself: “Fuck.”
I waited, heart in my throat, hand still protectively over my stomach.
Brett cleared his throat hard. “Can I?—”
I smiled even as my eyes stung. “Yeah. Michael already told you about the other one. But this one… this one’s ours. And we want you. Not as backup. Not as a favor. As the godfather. The one who’ll teach him every bad word and still take a bullet if it ever comes to that.”
There was a long, heavy quiet on the other end.
Then Brett’s voice came back, dry as ever, but thicker than I’d ever heard it.
“Well, shit. Guess I better start practicing my ‘I’m not crying, you’re crying’ face for the christening photos.” A rough laugh. “You two really know how to ruin a man’s carefully cultivated reputation as an emotionally unavailable asshole.”
I heard him sniff once, sharp and quick, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Tell Mikey I said yes,” he said, quieter now. “And tell that kid I’m already meaner than his old man and twice as protective. Anyone ever makes him cry, I’ll handle it. Quietly.”
My throat tightened. “Brett?—”
“Don’t get soft on me, Kate. I’ve got a reputation.” Another rough breath. “But… yeah. I’m in. All the way. For the real one.”
I pressed my free hand harder against my stomach, feeling the impossible little life that already tied all of us together.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Anytime, sugar.” His voice cracked just a fraction before he covered it with a smirk I could hear. “Now go rest. You’re growing a Waters. Those things come out stubborn as hell.”
The line went quiet.
I sat there in the dark, phone still warm in my hand, and let the first real smile in days settle across my face.
We had a godfather.
I woke to Michael’s mouth on my neck.
Soft at first.
Then firmer.
Then slow enough that my whole body melted before my eyes even opened.
His hands slid over my stomach, protective, reverent, like he was memorizing us — me and the tiny life beneath my skin — before the world took him away again.
“Good morning, Mrs. Waters,” he whispered against my throat, and every nerve in me lit up.
“Morning,” I breathed, turning into him, into warmth, into everything I had been starving for.
What happened between us was slow and tender and fierce all at once — the kind of closeness you can’t put into words, only feel in your bones. The kind that makes your heart ache even while it’s still beating.
When it was over, he held me so close I could feel his pulse hammering against my spine.
And then he said it.
“It’s time for me to go, baby.”
A cold wave went through me.
He pressed his forehead to mine, brushing my hair back with shaking fingers. “Stay here. Stay safe.”
“I know,” I whispered. I did. But knowing didn’t make any of this easier.
“The next time I see you,” he said softly, “it’s going to be over.”
I searched his face. “It isn’t going to be nine months, is it?”
He let out a breath — short, clipped, frustrated.
“Hell, no.”
Relief and fear tangled in my chest.
He cupped my cheeks. “The less you know, the better. But Brett and I have a plan in motion. Stay out of it. Stay safe. Stay here.”
His voice cracked.
“For me.”
Something inside me splintered when I saw the tremor in his hands.
“If anything happens to me…” he started, then swallowed hard. “Kate, listen to me. If—if anything happens —you go to Drew. He’ll protect you. Go to Drew, baby. He’ll?—”
“No.” My voice broke. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”
But he kept staring at me like he needed me to hear it, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“You and the baby,” he whispered. “My whole damn world.”
I kissed him then, desperate, memorizing him, tasting salt from tears I pretended weren’t mine. And somehow, impossibly, we found each other again—clinging, loving, trying to pour a lifetime into a single morning.
When it ended, I pressed my hands to my belly, whispering a promise to our child I prayed I wouldn’t break.
He dressed quietly, every movement slow, like he was afraid any sound might shatter me. Then he knelt by the bed, brushed his lips over my stomach, and whispered something I couldn’t hear.
He stood, kissed my forehead, and slipped out the door.
I followed to the window.
He walked into the woods alone, the grass heavy with dew, sunrise painting him in gold and shadow. My heart lodged in my throat, hurting in a way I didn’t know a heart could hurt.
“Come back to me,” I whispered through the glass, voice trembling. “Come back to us.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks, warm against the cold morning air, then he was gone.
The ghost of him won’t leave me alone.
I feel him in the cabin — in the dent his body left in the pillow, in the lingering scent of cedar and smoke on the sheets.
He’s in the woods—every place we walked, every tree he leaned on while kissing me breathless.
He’s in the river—our reflections drifting on the surface the night we floated under the stars, planning a future we’re not sure we’ll live long enough to see.
It’s too quiet without him.
Too still.
Too loud inside my head.
I want to keep the baby safe—God, I do — but I also have to keep myself sane. And the silence of that cabin is starting to peel at the edges of me.
So I get on Brett’s bike.
Helmet on. Gloves on. Jacket zipped.
Hidden. Anonymous.
Just another rider on the back roads.
The engine hums under me, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. I take the long way into town — through familiar streets, familiar corners, familiar ghosts — and I’m light enough to float.
I slip around back of Claire’s toy shop at noon, park the bike behind the dumpster, and let myself in through the staff door.
The moment I’m inside, everything hits me at once.
The smell of lemon cleaner.
The faint squeak of wooden floors.
The quiet little bell above the front door.
And Claire.
She whirls when she sees me, eyes wide, mouth dropping.
“Kate? What are you doing here? You scared ten years off my life.”
My throat tightens.
The helmet feels too heavy in my hand.
“I know I shouldn’t have come,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t be here. But I just… I can’t be alone anymore, Claire. I can’t do this alone anymore.”
Her expression melts before I finish speaking.
“Oh, babe.”
She’s across the room in two seconds, arms wrapped tight around me, holding me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again.
I sag into her, breathing in lavender lotion and the faint scent of sugar from the candy aisle. It smells like childhood. Like safety. Like home.
“Come on,” she murmurs, tugging me toward the back hallway. “Office. Couch. You’re staying until you stop looking like a ghost who outran her own funeral. I’ll text Remi to send extra guards. Brett allows them in this territory now. For me. So I can still have my store.”
I let her lead me.
Her office is cramped and cluttered — stacks of order forms, crates of stuffed animals, a broken Barbie jeep in the corner — but it’s warm. It’s hers. And the old corduroy couch in the corner looks like heaven.
She pushes me down onto it.
Tucks a fuzzy purple blanket around my legs like I’m six.
“You hungry?”
“I wasn’t,” I say honestly, “until you hugged me.”
She snorts. “Good. I’m starving. I’m gonna grab lunch from that Italian place we used to inhale during deadlines.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “And nachos.”
Claire gasps dramatically. “From Mama Cetta’s?”
“From Mama Cetta’s,” I nod. “With the extra cheese.”
“Oh, hell yes,” she grins. “We’re doing this right.”
We both giggle — soft and exhausted, like two women who’ve survived too many storms. For a moment, it feels normal.
Like we’re twenty again.
Like I’m not secretly married to a mob king and in hiding.
Like I’m not being hunted.
Like I’m not carrying a child who could rewrite the entire power structure of Bayview.
She squeezes my knee.
“I’ll be back in twenty.”
And then she’s gone — the jingling shop bell chiming faintly through the wall — and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel alone.
I sink back into the couch, rest a hand on my belly, and breathe.
Safe.
For now.