31. Max
— ? —
Max
The farm’s medical room feels smaller with a delivery bed and two nurses in it.
“Breathe,” Dr. Rossi says, her voice steady. “You’re doing beautifully, Cat.”
“I’m doing terribly. I’m doing the opposite of beautifully.”
“You’re dilating on schedule. The baby’s heart rate is strong. Everything looks good.”
“Everything does not feel good.”
“Feeling good and looking good are different medical categories.”
I check my watch. Three hours and forty-seven minutes since her water broke. Contractions every four minutes, lasting about sixty seconds each.
“How much longer?” I ask.
“Hard to say. First babies take their own time. Could be an hour. Could be six.”
“Six hours?”
“Welcome to childbirth, Mr. Moretti. Not known for its efficiency.”
Cat makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan. “If this takes six more hours, I’m going to-”
The contraction hits. Her whole body tenses, and I take her hand, counting seconds, watching her face contort.
“That’s it. You’re doing great. Just breathe through it.”
“Stop telling me to breathe. I know how to breathe.”
“Then breathe.”
“I am breathing!”
She crushes the bones of my hand and I let her, because it’s the only useful thing I’ve got right now.
“Breathe more.”
“I will kill you.”
“Not until after the baby comes.”
The contraction passes. She slumps against the pillows, and I grab a cloth to dab at her forehead.
“Where are my parents?”
“Outside. In the yard. Last time I checked, your father and Enzo were pacing in formation. Sharing a flask.”
“Of course they are. And my mother?”
“Running the kitchen like a field marshal. Something about making sure everyone has food because babies wait for no one’s hunger.”
“That sounds like her.” She closes her eyes. “What about Nico?”
“Driving the perimeter. He’s convinced someone’s going to attack during the wedding reception.”
“The reception ended hours ago.”
“I know. He’s thorough.”
“He’s paranoid.”
“Same thing in our line of work.”
Through the window, the sky is still dark, hours yet before dawn. Our daughter has decided to make her entrance at the most dramatic possible moment. Because of course she has. She’s ours.
“Max.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
I lean closer, brushing hair from her face. “I know. But you’re going to be okay. The baby’s going to be okay. Dr. Rossi is the best there is.”
“What if something goes wrong?”
“Then we deal with it together. The hospital in town is twenty minutes away, and there’s a helicopter on standby.”
“You have a helicopter on standby?”
I’ve read every complication, memorized every number, stationed people I trust at every exit. It’s the only way I know how to love her through this.
“I have three helicopters on standby. And a surgeon. And enough blood supply to handle anything.”
“That’s excessive.”
“That’s love. Same thing.”
She laughs despite the pain. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m prepared. There’s a difference.”
Another contraction starts. She grips my hand, and the world narrows to her breathing and the numbers on the monitors.
Hour 4
“I need to do something,” I tell Dr. Rossi during a brief lull.
“You’re doing something. You’re supporting your wife.”
“I need to do something useful.”
“That is useful.”
“It doesn’t feel useful. It feels like standing around watching her suffer.”
Dr. Rossi doesn’t look up from the monitors, unbothered, a woman who has heard every panicked father in the state say some version of this.
“Mr. Moretti, I’ve delivered hundreds of babies. The fathers always feel useless. It’s part of the process.”
“I don’t like feeling useless.”
“Then fake it. You’re good at that.”
Another contraction hits, and Cat’s hand clamps down on mine.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her. “You’re almost there.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can feel it.”
“That’s not how medicine works.”
She grips my hand through the next contraction, and I hold on like hope is a thing you can pass through skin.
“It’s how hope works.”
“Hope isn’t a medical category either.”
“It should be. I’m going to have a word with the medical establishment.”
She laughs, actually laughs, and the sound is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
Through the window, I watch Enzo and Salvatore still pacing. Rosa appears briefly, carrying a tray toward the men.
“They’re praying,” Cat murmurs.
“How do you know?”
“My father moves his lips when he prays. And Enzo keeps touching his chest; that’s where he keeps his saint medal.”
“Which saint?”
“Michael. The warrior. Our grandmother gave it to him when he took over.”
“Appropriate.”
“I always thought so.” She winces. “I hope they’re praying to someone who handles logistics too. This baby is taking her time.”
Dr. Rossi approaches. “Actually, I think we’re getting close. You’re fully dilated. With the next contraction, follow that urge to push.”
Cat’s eyes go wide. “Already?”
“Your body knows what it’s doing. Trust it.”
The contraction comes. Cat pushes.
5:47 a.m.
“I can see the head,” Dr. Rossi announces. “One more push, Cat. One more and she’s here.”
Cat is exhausted, hair plastered to her face, voice hoarse. But when she looks at me, her eyes are fierce.
“Tell me I can do this.”
“You can do this.”
“Tell me it’s almost over.”
I press my forehead to hers, feeding her back every ounce of steadiness I have left.
“It’s almost over. One more push.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you. More than anything. Now push.”
She pushes.
And the world changes.
She’s tiny.
Red-faced and screaming, fists clenched, lungs working overtime to announce her displeasure at being evicted from her comfortable home.
“Would you like to hold her?” Dr. Rossi asks.
My hands are shaking. Actually shaking, the tremor visible.
“You’re fine,” Cat says, her voice wrecked. “Take her, Max.”
“What if I drop her?”
“You won’t drop her.”
“She’s so small. What if I-”
I’ve held weapons in worse conditions without a tremor, and now I can’t stop.
“Max. You’ve held a gun steady under fire. You can hold a baby.”
“Guns don’t squirm.”
“Neither does she, yet. Take her.”
I hold out my hands.
Dr. Rossi places her in my arms, and suddenly I’m holding my daughter. This tiny, perfect, screaming human being who didn’t exist until moments ago.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes open, blue, her mother’s blue, and she looks at me like she’s sizing me up. Like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the trouble.
“She’s judging me,” I tell Cat. “Already.”
“She’s a Moretti woman. Judging people is genetic.”
“That’s fair.”
I lower her onto Cat’s chest, and Cat’s arms come up to cradle her, and the crying stops. Just like that.
“Hi, baby,” Cat whispers. “Hi, Vittoria. Welcome to the world.”
“Tori Romano Moretti,” I say. “Both surnames.”
“Both bloodlines.”
“Both families.”
The three of us, crammed onto a bed built for one.
“She’s perfect,” Cat says.
“She’s ours.”
Rosa is the first through the door.
She takes one look at the baby, bursts into tears, and immediately starts issuing orders. “She needs more blankets. Cat needs food. Has anyone called Father DiMaggio? The baptism needs to be scheduled-”
“Mamma,” Cat says. “She’s ten minutes old.”
“Which means we’re already behind on planning. These things take time. The church needs notice. The reception hall-”
“Mamma. Ten. Minutes. Old.”
“I heard you the first time. I’m choosing to be proactive.”
Salvatore follows more slowly, his cane tapping. He stops at the foot of the bed, staring at the baby like she’s something impossible.
“A girl,” he says. “A beautiful girl.”
“Vittoria,” Cat tells him. “After Nonna.”
“Vittoria.” He repeats it like a prayer. “She would have loved that.”
“I know.”
His composure cracks. He turns away, one hand pressed to his eyes, and Rosa goes to him immediately.
“It’s all right,” she murmurs. “It’s all right, caro. Let it out.”
“I’m not crying. I’m just-”
“You’re crying. It’s allowed. Our granddaughter was just born. Cry.”
Enzo hangs back in the doorway.
“You coming in?” I ask.
“In a minute. I’m just-” He swallows. “She’s really here.”
“Since about ten minutes ago. Loudly.”
“My niece.”
“Yes.”
“And she’s okay? They’re both okay?”
“They’re perfect.”
“Good.” He still doesn’t move. “That’s good.”
I step into the hallway with him. “Thank you. For being here. For keeping everything running while we’ve been hiding out.”
“Don’t. You’re my brother now. This is what brothers do.”
“Still.”
“Still nothing.” He finally looks at me. “Go be with your wife. Your daughter. I’ll keep watch.”
“Keep watch for what?”
“Nothing, probably. But that’s what uncles do.”
He disappears outside. I return to the medical room.
Cat is dozing, Tori cradled against her chest. Rosa is arranging things with terrifying efficiency. Salvatore has pulled a chair to the bedside, watching his granddaughter with pure wonder.
I settle into the chair on the other side, taking Cat’s free hand.
“Hey,” she murmurs without opening her eyes.
“Hey.”
“Is everyone here?”
“Everyone who matters.”
“Good.” She shifts slightly. “There’s space on this bed. If you want.”
“The bed is tiny.”
“So make yourself small.”
I climb on, carefully, mindful of both of them, and somehow we fit.
“We did it,” Cat says.
“You did it. I just held your hand.”
“That’s doing something. Don’t diminish it.”
“Okay.”
Tori makes a small sound, and I reach out to touch her cheek.
“The treaty wanted a weapon with the right blood,” I say quietly.
Cat opens her eyes.
“Look what we made instead. She inherits the peace. And us.”
“And the goose.”
I laugh, actually laugh, because of course. Of course Cat would bring up Cannoli at a moment like this.
“Yes. God help her, she inherits the goose too.”