Chapter 23
LEO
Emma is pregnant.
The thought keeps circling through my mind, over and over, like a song stuck on repeat. It’s the only thought my brain is capable of producing right now.
Emma is pregnant. With my baby. We’re having a baby.
I can’t process it. I can’t make it feel real even though she’s standing right here in my arms, even though I heard her say the words, even though my hand is resting on her stomach where our child is growing right now. Right this second. A tiny baby that’s half me and half her.
Emma is pregnant.
Holy shit.
We’re still standing in the main hall, surrounded by bodies and blood and the wreckage of Connor’s assault. My men are in the doorways, weapons raised, waiting for orders. Connor’s remaining men are doing the same. The air is thick with tension and the copper smell of death.
But all I can think about is the fact that Emma is pregnant with my baby.
I think back to all the times we’ve had sex. That first time in my office when I fucked her on my desk. I wasn’t thinking about consequences. I only thought about my need and rage and the desire to claim her.
I didn’t even think about protection. I didn’t even think to ask her if she was on the pill. I should have made sure we were being careful.
I didn’t.
Every time since then. In my bed when she wakes up pressed against me and we can’t keep our hands off each other.
In the shower when the water’s running and her skin is slick with soap.
Against the wall of the library because we couldn’t make it to the bedroom.
On the library floor surrounded by books because I needed her right then and couldn’t wait.
Not once—not fucking once—did I ask if she was on birth control. Not once did I use protection. Not once did I even think about the possibility that we might be making a baby.
What kind of idiot doesn’t ask that question? What kind of reckless, stupid, irresponsible bastard just assumes everything is fine and keeps having unprotected sex with a woman he kidnapped?
Me. I’m that idiot.
I should be furious at my own stupidity. I also should be panicking about how we’re going to handle this. How am I going to keep Emma and a baby safe in my world? How can I be a father when I barely know how to be a decent human being?
But I can’t bring myself to regret it because Emma is pregnant with my baby and I want this. I want it so badly it physically hurts.
I’ve always wanted to be a father, but I’ve always thought about it in some distant, abstract way—someday, when the time is right, when I’ve found the right woman, when the business is more stable, when I’m not neck-deep in a war with the Brennans.
But I never thought it would actually happen. Men in my line of work don’t usually live long enough to see their kids grow up. We die young and violent and alone.
But now—
Now I’m going to be a father.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating and overwhelming all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down at a drop that might kill me or might be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Will they be a boy? A girl?
I desperately hope for a girl. A little girl who looks like Emma with those incredible green eyes and auburn hair that catches the light like fire when the sun hits it, that fierce spirit that makes her argue with me even when she probably shouldn’t.
Smart and strong and absolutely fearless. Beautiful. Stubborn as hell.
Although maybe I could do without another Emma attitude. One is enough. One might actually kill me with the stress. Two might be the death of me.
But god, I want it. I want to see a miniature version of Emma running around this house and watch her grow up strong and fearless and capable. I want to teach her everything I know and watch Emma teach her everything she knows.
I want to be there for all of it.
My mother is going to lose her fucking mind.
She’s been asking about grandchildren for years and has made pointed comments about how I’m not getting any younger and how the Santoro name needs to continue.
She’ll be ecstatic and probably cry. She’s definitely going to start planning nurseries and baby showers before I even finish telling her.
My sister’s going to give me so much shit for being irresponsible and for having a baby. She’s probably also going to give me shit for not admitting she was right about my feelings for Emma—but never, ever will I admit I’m wrong to Valentina.
My hand tightens on Emma’s waist and she leans into me slightly, her body warm and solid and real against mine. Alive. Pregnant. Mine.
The standoff stretches. Nobody’s lowering their weapons. Nobody’s standing down. We’re all just…waiting. For someone to make a move. For someone to give an order.
For Connor Brennan to decide whether he’s going to restart this war or let his daughter go.
Connor is staring at Emma in disbelief. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His hands are flexing at his sides—open, close, open, close—like he wants to reach for his gun but is forcing himself not to.
He looks destroyed. Devastated. Like Emma just reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.
Good. He deserves it after what he did to Gabriel.
But looking at the grief on his face, I can almost understand it. Almost. If someone took my daughter from me, if someone kidnapped her and made her fall in love with them and got her pregnant—
I’d end them right fucking there.
Finally, Connor moves. His hand twitches and for a second I tense, ready to shove Emma behind me and grab my own weapon.
But he’s not drawing. He’s holstering, putting his gun away.
“Everyone stand down,” he says roughly. “Lower your weapons. Now.”
The relief that floods through me is almost overwhelming. My men hesitate and look to me for confirmation and I nod. “You heard him. Stand down.”
Weapons lower slowly, suspiciously. Nobody’s putting them away completely. Nobody’s relaxing. But at least they’re not pointing at each other anymore.
The immediate threat passes, but the tension remains thick enough to cut.
Connor’s eyes when he looks at me are pure murder. If looks could kill, I’d be dead ten times over.
“We need to talk,” he says through gritted teeth. “Without guns.”
I nod, my arm still wrapped protectively around Emma. “Agreed.”
We move to my study, which is mostly intact. There’s a few bullet holes in the walls and shattered glass. But the furniture is still standing and the massive oak table in the center is undamaged.
Emma sits next to me, her chair pulled close enough that our legs are touching under the table. I keep one hand on her thigh the entire time—partly because I need to touch her and have the physical reassurance that she’s here and alive and real and pregnant with my child.
I’m so fucking grateful that we’re both still breathing and the assault didn’t end with one or both of us dead, and I get to have this future with her.
And partly because I know it pisses Connor off.
Old habits die hard.
Every time I touch Emma—when I pull her chair out for her or my hand settles on her thigh, or when I lean over to whisper something in her ear, my fingers brushing against hers on the table—I see Connor’s reaction.
His jaw twitches. Just slightly. A tiny muscle jumping under his skin.
His hands flex on the table like he’s imagining them wrapped around my throat.
The muscle in his temple jumps.
It’s petty and immature and definitely not helping the situation at all. Honestly, it’s probably making everything worse.
I do it anyway, especially since Emma leans into my touch. She doesn’t pull away when my hand settles on her lower back. I whisper in her ear, “You okay? Need water? Need a break?” She smiles slightly and shakes her head.
Watching Connor Brennan’s control fray at the edges is deeply, deeply satisfying.
Connor sits across from us with two of his advisors. They’re heavily armed even though we agreed to no guns in here.
Dante sits on my right, his face blank and Luca on my left, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
The negotiation starts and it’s immediately clear this isn’t going to be easy.
I was right. It wasn’t going to be easy. It takes hours.
Hours of back and forth, of threats barely disguised as suggestions, of concessions and compromises and drawing lines in the sand that we both know might get crossed.
Connor wants Emma home. I want Emma here. Emma wants both of us to shut up and let her make her own decisions.
“I’m staying with Leo,” she says for probably the tenth time, her voice tight with frustration. “Can we please move past this? Or are we going to keep arguing in circles until the baby’s born?”
Connor’s eyes flash with irritation. “You’re pregnant, Emma. You need proper medical care. Prenatal vitamins. Regular checkups. A stable environment with your mother nearby. Not”—he gestures around the destroyed estate—“this.”
“This is my home,” Emma says flatly.
Her father’s hand slams on the table and I tense. “This is a war zone!”
“Which you created!” Emma’s voice rises and I feel her lean forward. “You showed up with an army, Dad. You started shooting. So maybe let’s not pretend Leo’s the problem when you’re the one who turned his house into a battlefield.”
I squeeze her thigh gently, recognizing that sparks are flying and the whole room may be proverbially lit up soon. “Emma. Let me handle this.”
She stops and glares at me, but she takes a breath. She’s clearly biting back about a dozen more sarcastic comments and it’s taking visible effort.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Handle it. I’ll just sit here and be pregnant.”
I turn to Connor, keeping my voice level. “Emma stays with me. That’s not up for negotiation. But we can talk about visitation, access, and making sure she and the baby have everything they need. Medical care. Security. Whatever it takes to keep them safe and healthy.”
I let my hand slide from Emma’s thigh to rest briefly on her stomach, making my point crystal clear.
Connor’s hands flex on the table so hard his knuckles go white.