Chapter Forty-Four-Remy
The delivery room is chaos.
Alarms. Beeping. Lights.
Nurses moving too fast.
Fucking Volkovs everywhere.
Andy gripping my hand like she’s trying to break every bone in it—and trust me, if I could take her pain, I would. Ten times over.
“Remy—” she sobs, hair plastered to her forehead, eyes wide with pain and fire.
“I’m here, Baby. I’ve got you,” I choke, kissing her temple even though my throat feels like it’s closing. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You can do this.”
Birth isn’t easy. It’s not like TV or the romance books tell you it is.
There’s blood, sweat, tears, and various other fluids. There’s the slow-moving hands of the clock. The constant barrage of nurses, orderlies and doctors in and out of the room.
And the sight of the love of your life fighting to bring your children into this world?
That’s the clincher. That is the sight that does me in.
This woman? My woman?
She’s a goddamn miracle.
She is so fucking strong.
Stronger than she knows. Stronger than you or me could ever be.
Then it happens.
First one thin, wailing cry fills the air—sharp, insistent, the sound of life itself.
A boy. Our boy.
I swear my heart fucking explodes.
But before I can even process it, the doctor barks, “One more push, Mrs. Falco!”
And my wife, my warrior, bears down, body trembling with exhaustion.
Another cry pierces the room, higher-pitched this time. A girl.
Both of them.
A son and a daughter.
And Andy collapses back, chest heaving, tears streaming, her beautiful face wrecked and glowing at the same time.
It’s the hardest, most gutting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
And she’s not finished. While we’re cooing and awed by the sight of our twins, the doctor gives instructions gently this time, and I hold Andy’s hand while she pushes and delivers the afterbirth.
I haven’t prayed in a really long time.
But tonight? I prayed, I begged, I bartered. And now that it’s over, that they’re here, and she’s here—all healthy, all safe and sound.
I thank God.
Fuck. I thank God a thousand times.
For her.
For them.
For us.
Recovery is quick, and after some cajoling and a little threatening, the doctor allows us to go home forty-eight hours later.
We have a physician on call, so it’s not like anyone will be neglected. But Andy insists we be home for Christmas, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for this woman, including giving a thirty thousand dollar donation to the maternity wing of St. Agatha’s Hospital.
Christmas Day?
It’s madness, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I won’t let Andy or the babies out of bed just yet, so everyone’s coming here.
Volkovs, Furys, cousins, aunts, uncles—it’s a circus.
But it’s our circus.
My mom flew up from Florida, and she’s head over heels for Andy. Calls her my daughter like it was always meant to be.
Like she never doubted it.
And I love her for it. I hope she can feel better about retiring down in Florida now that she’s seen for herself how settled and happy we all are.
Meanwhile, the lawyer filed for dismissal of Julio’s custody suit. The fucker didn’t show for Christmas Eve visitation. And the Judge agreed—case closed.
Strange Christmas for law enforcement in Wharton and Dover, too.
Big drug bust. Stash house in flames. No survivors.
A coincidence, I’m sure.
At least, that’s what the official reports will say.
The whispers are different. They say the house was crawling with cartel muscle, product stacked from the floor to the rafters. They say the screams carried all the way to the turnpike before the fire swallowed it whole.
Me? I don’t say a word.
Oh, and I almost forgot. A suspected child pornographer under FBI radar in Weehawken, New Jersey, was found dead in his apartment.
Imagine that?
Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard a thing.
What the feds will write up as “accidental asphyxiation” is making the rounds in back channels.
Rumor says he strangled to death after failing to correctly assemble some sick choking contraption he used to get himself off.
Now, I’m not one to yuck anyone’s yum. You wanna spice up your sex life with a little kink? Be my guest.
But this fucker? He wasn’t looking at consenting adults.
He was looking at kids. Babies.
And that shit? That’s not kink. That’s rot. Pure evil.
So yeah, let the story spin however they want it to. Let the FBI scratch their heads.
Me? I’m sure Satan himself is popping champagne right now, welcoming that piece of shit back to Hell where he belongs.
And if my hands ache when I flex them? If my knuckles are split and raw?
Well. Some Christmas gifts don’t fit under the tree.
Me? I’m sitting in our bedroom, helping Andy while she feeds our twins.
One of each—double the surprise. Double the perfection.
Andrew and Elena Falco.
“Here, let me put him down, and I’ll bring you Elena,” I murmur, kissing my wife’s sweet, sweat-damp head.
She leans into me, those hazel eyes shining like firelight.
Her hand lifts—wedding band catching the glow of the Christmas tree lights outside our window.
The new one I had made just for her.
Twenty-four karat gold, warm as her skin. Inside, our initials. Outside, engraved with the words forever and always.
“I love this, by the way,” she whispers, voice soft and a little awed.
“I love you,” I answer without hesitation.
She makes a contented hum, and we swap infants carefully, her body still tender but her touch fierce and protective.
Tiny feet patter. I turn, and my chest cracks open at the sight of Callie—hand tucked in my mom’s—peeking in with wide green eyes.
“Sorry for the interruption,” Mom says gently, “but someone wanted to see her siblings.”
“That’s okay,” Andy smiles, hair falling in waves around her flushed face.
“Daddy! Mommy Andy! Are my babies asleep?” Callie beams, voice ringing with excitement.
“No, sweetheart. Your babies are having their dinner now. Andrew just finished his,” Andy soothes.
“Can I hold him?” she asks, marching right over to me, serious as a judge.
I grin, lowering a drowsy Andrew into her little arms as Mom helps her settle in the chair by the wall. She cradles him like he’s made of glass, her small face solemn with responsibility.
“I’m your big sister,” she whispers to him. “Right, Daddy?”
“That’s right, Princess. You’re the best big sister ever.”
Her smile nearly splits her face.
Andy’s breath catches behind me, and when I glance at her, she’s crying again. Hormones, sure. But also love.
So much love.
I watch, throat thick, as Callie leans down to whisper to Andrew, her curls brushing his cheek.
“You can play with all my toys,” she says, voice hushed, “except my tiara.”
Andy chuckles wetly, wiping her eyes, and murmurs, “She’s going to have them both wrapped around her finger, isn’t she?”
“Yep,” I say, bending down to kiss her mouth. “Just like she has us.”
Her smile is luminous, her face glowing despite the exhaustion, despite everything we’ve been through.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she whispers.
“Good,” I murmur back against her lips, letting the truth of it settle deep. “Because you’re stuck with us, Mrs. Falco.”
And in that moment—with my wife, my children, and my family safe and warm around me—I know there’s nowhere else on this earth I’ll ever want to be.