24. Serena #3
The pain rolls through me. Rocco stays. He does not look at Lucia. He does not ask for the phone. He does not say just one call. He breathes with me, his forehead against mine, his hand under mine, his whole body in the car. With me.
The contraction ends. I sob once. Ugly. Exhausted.
“You turned it off.”
“Yes.”
“You gave it away.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t leave.”
His eyes shine. “No.”
I touch his face with my free hand. Wet from rain. Warm from him. “Okay,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes for half a second. Like okay is enough to live on. Maybe tonight it is.
The rest of the drive is a blur of rain, contractions, Lucia’s sharp voice, Matteo’s controlled turns, and Rocco’s hand never leaving mine.
The hospital entrance comes out of the storm like a lit ship. Not my original hospital. Not the place Rafe photographed. Plan B. The secret plan without stealing my name.
There are two nurses waiting with a wheelchair under the covered entrance. Dr. Sayeed behind them in blue scrubs and a rain jacket. Security positioned far enough away that I don’t feel swallowed by men.
My plan. My chosen people. My body. My baby.
Rocco gets out first, then turns and waits. Not pulling. Not lifting. “Wheelchair?” he asks.
I want to say no. Pride is stupid. My legs are shaking. “Yes.”
He helps me into it with Lucia on the other side. Matteo stays near the driver’s door, pale and wet, one hand pressed carefully to his ribs.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods once. “Go have a baby.”
Another contraction starts as they wheel me inside. I reach blindly. Rocco’s hand is there. Already.
“I’m here,” he says.
This time I don’t tell him to stop saying it. I need it.
A nurse asks questions. I answer some. Lucia answers the ones about the bag. Rocco answers none until I look at him. Then he only fills in what I ask. He knows all of it. Of course he does. Binder man.
They get me into a triage room. Gown. Monitor bands. The baby’s heartbeat fills the room a few minutes later. Fast. Strong. A galloping sound that makes my whole body go loose.
“There,” Dr. Sayeed says. “Baby sounds good.”
I cry again. No one comments. Good. Everyone’s learning.
Rocco stands beside the bed, wet coat gone, sleeves rolled, hair still damp. His phone isn’t in his hand. It’s with Lucia, who has put it in her bag like she’s holding a hostage.
Dr. Sayeed checks me. Brisk and kind, and she speaks to me, not around me. “Four centimeters. Waters ruptured. Contractions are regular. We’re admitting you.”
Four. Only four? I want to file a complaint. “That’s it?”
“It’s real labor. You’re doing well.”
I’m not doing well. I’m damp, terrified, wearing a gown that opens in ways no garment should, and my socks are ruined. But the baby sounds good. Rocco’s still here. So maybe. Maybe I am.
The pain comes harder now that I’m lying down. I hate lying down. “Up,” I gasp.
Rocco looks at Dr. Sayeed. Then stops. “Do you want to stand?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
He helps me up. Rocco holds my weight when I lean into him. I sway through the contraction, face pressed to his chest, hands gripping his shirt. This isn’t romantic. But Rocco’s hand moves up and down my back, steady, and he says nothing unless I ask.
That’s love tonight. Silence with hands. Staying without taking over.
When the contraction ends, I stay against him. His chin rests lightly on my hair. “Serena. Do you want an epidural when you can have one?”
I blink into his shirt. “Are you asking because you don’t want to see me in pain?”
“I don’t want to see you in pain,” he says. “But that’s my problem. Not the decision.”
I pull back enough to look at him. God. That one gets me. Right in the center.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Okay.”
I do get the epidural. Eventually. When they place it, Rocco stands in front of me, letting me curl around his hands, my forehead against his chest. He doesn’t watch the needle. He watches me.
When it’s done and the edge of the pain begins to soften, I cry from relief.
“Better?” he asks.
“Don’t sound hopeful. It might hear you.”
The storm keeps going outside. Somewhere beyond the hospital, Rafe’s still out there. The Castellano council’s still fracturing—capos picking sides, a dock burning, Vittorio’s faction circling the weakness like it’s tribute owed to them. Two men are dead. Rocco’s phone is still off in Lucia’s bag.
The room settles for a little while. Dim lights. Monitor beeps. Baby heartbeat. Lucia dozing in the chair with one eye open like a dragon pretending to nap.
Rocco sits beside my bed. His hand is in mine. Not because I’m contracting hard anymore. Because I haven’t let go. He doesn’t mention that. Smart man.
I watch his face in the low light. He looks exhausted. The tiny line between his brows he gets when he’s carrying too much and pretending it weighs nothing. But he’s here. All of him.
“Rocco,” I whisper.
His head lifts immediately. “Pain?”
“No.”
“Baby?”
“Still kicking my rib like she pays rent.”
His face changes. She. I said she again. We still don’t know. He doesn’t correct me. He just puts his other hand over our joined ones. “What do you need?”
My favorite question. My terrifying question. The question that means I have to know myself instead of just surviving everyone else’s choices.
I look toward Lucia’s bag where his phone is hidden. Then at the man beside me.
“I know you’ll have to deal with them eventually,” I say. “The dock. The council. Vittorio. Two men died.”
Pain crosses his face. Real pain. He doesn’t hide it from me. He also doesn’t pick it up and leave with it.
“Lewis will handle what can be handled tonight,” he says. “Rosa can keep the council from eating itself for a few hours. Vittorio can fall into the water for all I care.” He sighs. “I’ll deal with it. But not while you’re in labor with our child.”
Our child. My eyes burn. Again.
“Last time,” I whisper, “I needed you and you sent me away.”
His hand tightens. “I know.”
I let him say it this time. Because he does. Not completely. No one can completely know someone else’s hurt. But enough to sit in it. Enough not to argue.
“Tonight I needed you,” I say.
His eyes shine. “I came.”
“Because I called.”
“Because you called.”
That matters. So much. He did not break down the door. He did not decide labor gave him rights. He waited for my voice. And when I used it, he came.
The baby’s heartbeat keeps galloping softly through the room. Thunder rolls farther away now. Still there. Less violent.
I’m so tired. So scared. So full of him that it hurts.
“Rocco.”
“Yes.”
I tug on his hand. Weakly, because epidural and exhaustion and being very pregnant. He leans closer at once.
“Stay beside me,” I whisper.
His breath catches. I see it. I feel it in his hand.
“Not in the room,” I say, because I need the words exact. “Not nearby. Not handling things from the hall. Beside me.”
His face breaks in the quiet way it does now. The way that makes him look less like a Castellano and more like my husband.
“Yes,” he says.
I hold his eyes. “No matter who calls.”
He reaches into Lucia’s bag without looking away from me.
Lucia opens one eye. “Careful.”
He takes his phone out. For one second, I think he’s going to check it. My chest tightens. But he doesn’t turn it on. He places it on the rolling tray beside my water cup. Then he takes the hospital pen from the clipboard, writes one line on a piece of paper, and slides the paper under the phone.
I look. Do not bring me this unless Serena asks.
Then he hands the whole tray to Lucia. “If I reach for it,” he says, “throw it at my head.”
Lucia takes the tray. “With pleasure.”
I start laughing. Then crying. Both.
Rocco bends over my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles. “Beside you,” he says.
The next contraction rises under the medicine, pressure more than pain now, a deep push from inside my body toward whatever comes next. I grip his hand. He’s there. Right there.
And for the first time since he left me pregnant, I let myself believe he’ll still be there when the contraction ends.