24. Serena
SERENA
Labor starts during a thunderstorm because apparently my uterus has a flair for drama.
I’d like to say I handle this calmly. I do not.
I’m thirty-six weeks and four days pregnant, which is both almost done and too early, depending on which article you read at three in the morning.
The first contraction wakes me at 2:17 a.m. I know the time because lightning flashes hard enough to turn Lucia’s guest room white, thunder cracks right over the building, and my phone lights up beside the bed with an alert from the security app.
LOCKDOWN ACTIVE. Exterior movement detected near west alley.
Great. Perfect. Very normal.
I lie there for three seconds, waiting. The pain passes. Not terrible. Not even the worst cramp I’ve had during this pregnancy.
The second contraction comes eleven minutes later. That’s when I sit up. Slowly. Because sitting up while heavily pregnant is less of a movement and more of a committee decision.
I put both feet on the floor. My stomach tightens again. Hard. Low. Different.
I know this sounds stupid, but different is the only word. My body has hurt in many strange ways for months. Back pain. Hip pain. A rib the baby has personally declared war on. This isn’t that. This is a hand inside me closing into a fist.
I breathe through it because classes and videos and midwives all tell you to breathe. They make it sound spiritual. It’s not. It’s just me in one sock, gripping the side of Lucia’s guest bed, whispering, “Nope, nope, nope,” while thunder tries to knock the roof off.
The contraction ends.
I reach for my phone. There are four notifications. Security lockdown. Miriam: Stay inside. West alley sweep in progress. Lucia: I am awake. Do not move until I get there. Rocco: Are you okay?
His text is thirty seconds old.
Rocco isn’t in the flat tonight. That was my choice.
After the flower note, he wanted to sleep in the hallway, then the car outside, then possibly hanging from the roof like a handsome, morally complicated gargoyle.
I said no. Not because I wanted him gone.
Because I wanted to know I could ask him to come.
He’s been staying two streets over with Lewis and half a security command setup. Close enough to arrive in four minutes. Far enough that my space stays mine. He hated it. He did it. That’s basically our love language now. Hate it. Do it anyway. Bring soup.
Another contraction starts. My hand clamps around the phone. This one’s stronger. Not unbearable. But not cute.
I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth. My body curls forward.
I tap Rocco’s name. He answers before the first ring finishes. “Serena.”
His voice. Low. Awake. Terrified and trying not to show it.
I close my eyes. “I think I’m in labor.”
There’s one second of silence. Not because he freezes. Because I can hear him choosing every single thing he does next.
“Okay,” he says.
Good word. I clutch it like a railing.
“How far apart?”
“Eleven minutes. Maybe nine. I don’t know. I was asleep for the first one.”
“You can sleep through early labor. I read the binder.”
The binder. Of course. Rocco has a labor binder. Tabs. Backup routes. Doctor numbers. My snack preferences.
“Do not mention the binder right now,” I say.
“Sorry.”
“There’s lockdown,” I say.
“I know.”
His voice is already moving. Command waking in it. “Miriam has west alley. Lucia’s coming to you. I’m outside in three minutes.”
Something in me pulls tight. Outside. Not in. Waiting. Asking.
“Rocco.”
“Yes.”
The contraction eases. I breathe. “Come in.”
The words are small. Huge.
His breath stops. Then, “I’m coming.”
He hangs up. Not in the old way. Not mid-me. After I asked.
The bedroom door opens without knocking. Lucia enters wearing a dressing gown, rain boots, and an expression that could scare weather into apologizing. “Well,” she says, “this is inconvenient.”
I laugh. Then immediately start crying. “I think the baby is coming.”
Lucia’s face changes. Not panic. Never panic. But her eyes soften. “All right, darling.”
Darling. Oh no. Now I cry harder.
“Too early,” I say. Not due-early. Wrong-early. The kind that means something might have gone sideways in a body I can’t see into.
“A little. I’m not lying to a woman in labor. It seems unwise.” She comes to me and puts one hand on my shoulder. Steady. “Thirty-six and four is early, but not terrifying. We have the doctor. We have the plan. We have the bag. We have tiny socks.”
“The yellow ones?”
“Obviously.”
I hiccup a laugh. Another contraction grabs me before I can answer. This one is harder. My hand shoots out and catches Lucia’s wrist. She rubs my back in a firm circle, not gentle little nonsense pats. Good.
The door to the flat opens. Voices. Low. Fast. Rocco’s voice comes from the hall. “Serena?”
I can’t answer because my body’s busy trying to fold in half around a bowling ball.
Lucia calls, “Bedroom. And if you come in making declarations, I’ll throw a lamp.”
Rocco appears in the doorway. Black coat soaked at the shoulders. Hair wet. Jaw tight. Eyes on me. Only me.
Something inside me unclenches even as the contraction peaks.
“Hi,” he says. Because apparently that’s our emergency language.
I make a sound that might be hi if hi were run over by a truck.
He steps into the room, then stops three feet away. Waiting. Still. Even now. Even when fear has his body strung tight enough to snap.
“Can I touch you?” he asks.
I nod hard. “Yes. Obviously. Hurry.”
He’s beside me immediately. His hand takes mine. Warm. Strong. Not crushing. I grip him like I’m trying to break bones. He lets me.
“That’s it,” he says. “I’m here.”
I glare at him through tears and pain. “Do not narrate like an expensive app.”
His mouth twitches. Lucia says, “Thank God. She’s still herself.”
The contraction ends. I slump forward. Rocco supports me with one hand at my back and one holding mine.
Rocco pulls out his phone. I tense. He notices instantly. “Doctor,” he says. “On speaker.”
Right. Doctor. Not family. Not council. Not someone else’s emergency.
He calls Dr. Sayeed, the consultant I picked after vetoing three doctors who looked at Rocco before answering my questions.
Dr. Sayeed answers on the second ring, calm in that terrifying medical way. “Serena?”
“Yes,” I say, because this is my body and my labor and I’m answering.
Rocco catches it. Not approval. Pride. That’s worse.
“Contractions?” Dr. Sayeed asks.
“Nine to eleven minutes. Stronger. No waters breaking. Baby moved a few minutes ago. I’m thirty-six and four.”
“Bleeding? Headache? Visual changes?”
“No. Just fear and irritation.”
Lucia mutters, “Healthy baseline.”
Dr. Sayeed makes a tiny sound that might be amusement. “Given the security situation, I want you brought in now rather than waiting at home. Use Plan B. I’m notifying the unit.”
Plan B. The hospital two towns over. Not the one Rafe photographed.
“Is the baby okay?” I ask.
“Based on what you’ve told me, yes. Early, but not dangerously early at this stage. Serena, I need you to focus on getting here safely and calmly.”
Calmly. Funny. Everyone is a comedian tonight.
“Okay.”
Rocco says nothing until I look at him. Then he asks, “Do you want me to coordinate transfer?”
Not I will. Do you want. I’m in pain and still notice.
“Yes,” I say. “With Lucia.”
“Done. One primary car, one shadow car at distance. Miriam in the primary. Matteo driving if cleared.”
Matteo appears in the doorway behind Rocco, fully dressed, pale, bruised, and holding the car keys like an idiot hero. “The doctor said I can sit upright and avoid sudden impact.”
Lucia stares at him. “You plan to drive in a storm, during lockdown, with bruised ribs and a pregnant woman in labor, while avoiding sudden impact?”
Matteo pauses. “When you say it like that?—”
“I say it correctly.”
Rocco turns to Matteo. His face is tight. Not with jealousy now. With calculation. “Can you drive safely?”
Matteo meets his eyes. “Yes.”
Rocco turns to me. “Serena?”
Oh. He is asking me. Again. While the room is moving and Rafe may or may not have men in the alley and my uterus is preparing another assault.
“Matteo drives,” I say.
Rocco nods once. No argument. “Matteo drives.”
Matteo’s face changes for one second. Not triumph. Relief, maybe. Pain. Both.
“Miriam front passenger,” Rocco says. “I sit beside Serena. Lucia on her other side.”
Then another contraction starts. Rocco turns back to me. “Hand.”
I give him my hand, then his other hand, then grab his coat because why not.
The pain rises. Deep. Mean. Big enough that the room blurs around the edges.
“Look at me,” Rocco says.
I shake my head. “No.”
He goes quiet. Good. I can’t look at his face right now. His face has feelings on it. I don’t have room for his feelings. I barely have room for my own organs.
The contraction ends. I sag. Rocco catches more of my weight than I mean to give him. His stitches must be pulling. I remember too late. “Your side.”
“Sore,” he corrects.
“Better.”
Matteo says from the doorway, “We need to move before the alley sweep widens.”
Rocco’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t snap at him. Gold star. Tiny. Still.
“Bag,” Lucia says, already moving. She grabs it, and my pillow when I ask for it, because apparently in labor I’ve decided the pillow I’ve complained about for weeks is now essential.
Rocco helps me stand. That sounds simple. It is not. My stomach is hard and heavy. My back hurts.
We make it to the hall. Miriam’s there in black rain gear, hair pulled back, face calm. “Mrs. Castellano.”
I point at her. “Not tonight.”
She nods once. “Serena.”
Good. I like Miriam. She could probably kill someone with my ugly pillow.
Enzo stands at the stairs, looking like he wants to help and knows better than to touch anything.
The building groans under another hit of thunder. Lights flicker. For one terrible second, they go out. Black. Rain loud.
My hand clamps down on Rocco’s. “I’m here,” he says immediately.
The emergency lights kick on red along the hall. Very reassuring if you want to give birth inside a submarine.
“Generator?” Rocco asks.
Miriam says, “On. Main power down on the block.”