Epilogue
Rico
Any time soon turned out to mean one month.
One. Fucking. Month.
Leave it to karma to not only screw me over, but to wait—lurking like a sadistic little gremlin—until I proposed to my wife properly, had one incredibly mind-melting night of makeup sex (which, if I’m being honest, I’d fight her every damn day just to relive), and boom—pregnant.
And not just pregnant.
Twins.
Apparently, I have super sperm. My brothers are smug as hell, saying things like “Told you, stress-free equals fertile AF” while I plot their premature demises. I might be improving in group settings—slowly, in small increments, not all at once—but I will die before I admit they’re right.
I talk more now. Not a lot. Just enough to be human.
Most of it is reserved for my wife—yes, my wife—who somehow cracked the impenetrable steel vault that was my emotional bandwidth.
My family benefits from my newfound communication skills, but the downside?
It invites them to drone on about diapers, teething, and whatever allegedly impressive feat Amelia performed that, spoiler alert, is mildly interesting at best. But I listen.
I nod. I pretend I’m engaged. Because soon enough, I’ll be the one spamming group chats with baby’s first smile like some sleep-deprived lunatic.
Which brings me to my current predicament.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” I grip Allie’s hand like it’s a lifeline, because at this moment, it is.
“Do you see this?!” She waves wildly at her very, very prominent belly.
Yes. Yes, I do. It’s impossible to miss, considering my children have overstayed their welcome inside her for forty-two weeks. At this point, we’re approaching squatter’s rights.
She’s fucking terrifying.
I’ve seen some serious shit in my lifetime. Been in situations where most men would piss themselves and beg for mercy. But my very pregnant wife? This is next-level horror movie shit.
I would not be shocked if one of these kids comes out with a full set of teeth and horns.
And honestly? I can’t even pretend to be surprised she got knocked up. Considering how literally inside of her I was for days after I proposed, it would have been more shocking if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. My only genuine memory of our honeymoon is her naked in every position known to mankind.
I think there was a beach at some point, but honestly, that part’s fuzzy.
Now I get why my brothers were way too enthusiastic about pregnancy sex. It was a full-time job keeping up with her hormones, and I gladly clocked in. Twice a day. Three times during peak hours.
But now?
Now, I’m enemy number one.
And if these babies don’t come out soon, I have a feeling I won’t be the father of twins—I’ll be a cautionary tale.
“They’re coming now, baby,” I murmur in what I hope is a soothing tone. But really, it’s for my balls, because I’d like to keep them intact. Preferably attached to my body.
She groans, gripping my hand with a force that suggests she’s aiming for permanent damage. My fingers crack. She’s actively breaking them. But sure, she’s the one in pain.
Also, why does she get an epidural, and I get nothing?
Unlike my brothers, I now hold the ultimate trophy. The first Bennetti twins—one boy, one girl. Take that bitches. Not that I can say it out loud, because the more I talk like them, the more I hate myself.
Insert the bitches comment from earlier.
“Do you have names picked?” the doctor—a man—asks while, and I cannot stress this enough, he is elbow-deep in my wife’s favorite body part of mine.
I glare at him. “I thought we discussed you not making conversation while your hands are in my wife’s vagina?”
I also hate that I have to say vagina like we’re in a medical documentary instead of real life. But I’m not about to ask why he’s in my wife’s pussy. That would make it weird.
I glance at Allie. Yeah. Her eyes? Not full of love. Nope. Those are murder eyes. Eyes that say I could kill you right now and sleep like a baby afterward.
And honestly? I don’t blame her.
My balls, sensing imminent danger, attempt to retreat into my body. Cowards.
“I don’t blame them for wanting to stay where it’s warm and wet,” I mutter, glancing at her belly.
Yeah. She did not appreciate that comment.
“Rico,” she growls through a contraction, her breathing all Lamaze and aggressive—which, honestly, looks like hyperventilating with extra spite—before she turns to me.
“If these babies don’t come out soon…” She pauses to crush my fingers like a hydraulic press. “I. Will. Kill. You.”
And you know what?
I believe her.
"Head’s out!"
The man—whose actual profession should be way more regulated if you ask me—shouts like we’re at a damn football game.
Which, fun fact, we are not. We are in a sterile, too-bright, aggressively scented medical room where my wife is currently trying to expel our offspring like a possessed demon in an exorcism scene.
And me?
I am now witnessing the horror that is childbirth while actively trying to unsee it at the same time.
"Which one?" Allie groans, throwing her head back like she’s debating whether she can just tap out of this entire situation.
Like I know which one. I am neither the baby catcher nor the owner of the vagina in question. I was just standing by her side like a supportive husband should, but then, against my better judgment, I looked over the doctor’s shoulder.
Which was a mistake.
A catastrophic mistake.
The mistake that will haunt my subconscious for the rest of my natural life.
"One more push, and we’ll find out!" The too enthusiastic baby catcher chirps, as if my wife isn’t seconds away from committing premeditated homicide.
A moment later, a loud wail fills the room.
"It’s a girl!"
Stunning observation, Sherlock. Considering she just made her grand entrance without a penis, I figured.
Before I can even process the information, the nurses steal my child—my child—before I can get a proper look at her.
What is it with women and taking shit from me?
I follow them across the room, because if anyone is taking my kid, it’s me. The first thing I see? A head of dark hair, tiny fingers curled into delicate fists, and two kicking feet that already scream fighter.
Then she cries.
And just like that, something unhinges in my chest.
It’s a foreign, terrifying sensation—like someone took a crowbar to my ribcage and let in the light.
They wrap her up in one of those ridiculous baby burrito blankets and finally pass her to me. I look down at this tiny, perfect creature. Her little face scrunched in indignation like she’s already had it with this place.
Yeah, same, kid.
"Got a name picked out?"
Both Allie and I freeze.
Right. That.
The one thing we should have settled by now. Except, we haven’t.
Because every single time we discussed it, it turned into an all-out war where neither of us walked away victorious. And then, just for fun, my brothers had the audacity to steal all the good family names before I could even get in the game, leaving me with a list of rejects.
I glance at my wife, who is looking at me like I should be the one to answer.
"I told you, I like Clover."
I stare at her.
She’s clearly delirious from labor exhaustion.
Clover? CLOVER?
Like the weed? Like a lawn infestation?
The nurses shift awkwardly, probably debating if they should report us for attempting to name our kid after a garnish.
"Pearl." I look back at Allie, waiting for the inevitable argument. But instead of fighting me, she bursts into tears.
Shit. "Okay, not Pearl."
"No…" she chokes between sniffles and what I think are hiccuped sobs. "It’s perfect."
Well. I was prepared to fight to the death, but okay. This is…progress.
Before I can bask in my insignificant victory, the doctor—who is still in my wife’s personal space—pipes up like he’s part of the conversation. "And the boy?"
Oh, right.
Our other spawn.
Still hiding like he’s waiting for an engraved invitation. Honestly, I respect the hell out of it.
Allie, however, does not.
"Marco?"
My head snaps up so fast, I almost give myself whiplash.
"Hell. No."
Has she lost her mind?
Of all the names in the universe, she wants to name our kid after Marco?
The last thing that egomaniacal lunatic needs is another baby in this family, with his name.
"Have you seen his ego? It was at Thanksgiving. Floating over the parade. Big and shiny. Gave children nightmares."
Allie groans, her head dropping back onto the pillow with an exhausted sigh. “Fine. Not Marco. But you better have a damn name ready, because if I push one more human out of my body and we’re still arguing, I’m legally changing it to ‘Revenge.’”
Fair.
My son—who I already know is going to be the biggest pain in my ass—finally shows up.
There’s a lot of commotion, more shouting, and another wail.
I don’t even have time to see him before the nurses swipe this one away, too.
Fantastic. Two kids and I’ve gotten zero time with them before they’re being poked, prodded, and handled by people I will run background checks on later.
“What’s the name?”
I look at Allie. She looks at me. Then at our daughter in my arms, who is happily snoozing without a care in the world, and finally to the screaming newborn in the doctor’s grasp, already giving the world hell.
I smirk. “Roman.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Like the empire?”
“No, like the guy who’s going to drive us insane for the next eighteen years.”
Allie rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, which means I win. Again.
Roman and Pearl.
Pearl stole my heart. Roman will rebuild my peace.
Allie stole every last part of me, and I’m letting her keep it.
The doctor hands me my son, and for the first time in my life, I hold everything I never knew I wanted.
Two babies. A wife who should hate me but somehow loves me, anyway. And a future that doesn’t feel like a ticking clock to self-destruction.
“You happy?” Allie murmurs, exhausted but glowing like she just conquered the entire world. Which, technically, she did.
I glance at our kids, then at her. My wife. My constant. My entire damn universe.
“I have you. And you’re stuck with me forever.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “So yeah, I’m happy.”
She snorts, her eyes already drifting shut. “Better not start ignoring my texts again.”
I grin. “Not a chance, thief.”