“Rory.” I gave my wife a gentle shake. “Rory, look. He’s okay.” It was a wonder I was able to speak around the lump lodged in my throat.
“Wh-what?” Sniffling, she turned her head just in time to watch the doctor clamp and cut our son’s cord. More tears fell as she extended her arms, choking out, “Let me have him.”
Immediately, the infant was placed on her chest, and she clutched him tight, peppering kisses to the dark hair at the top of his head. “Mommy’s here, Luca sweetheart. I love you so much.”
With the crisis involving the baby seemingly over, my concern shifted to Rory. She had a family history of postpartum hemorrhage, so even though she’d made it through the rough delivery, her health was still at risk.
Mindful that my wife’s stress levels were already through the roof, I conveyed the question—asking about her condition—to the doctor using only my eyes.
He dipped his chin in silent understanding before speaking directly to Rory. “The skin-to-skin you’re doing is perfect, Mrs. Bellini, but if you want to see if maybe he’ll latch, breastfeeding will encourage your placenta to detach. Once that’s been delivered, I’ll get to work stitching you up before recording the baby’s measurements.”
Rory didn’t waste a single second, bringing our son to her breast, encouraging him to take the engorged nipple into his mouth. She hissed when he clamped down on the sensitive peak.
On high alert at her discomfort, I asked, “Does it hurt?”
“A little at first.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the baby. “But it’s better now.”
For a while, the only sounds in the room were those of Luca’s greedy sucking, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the first bonding experience he shared with his mother.
Trailing a fingertip down his soft cheek, Rory said, “John.”
“What?” I jolted at her back, the sudden movement causing the baby to pop off her breast and let out a displeased wail.
“It’s okay, sweet boy.” She quietly hushed our boy, switching him to the opposite breast and encouraging him to latch with a practiced ease that betrayed she was a natural. Twisting her neck around, she met my gaze. “I want that to be his middle name. I want him to carry both parts of you.”
“Luca John.” I tested out how it sounded. “Yeah, I like that.”
Rory beamed up at me. “Thank you.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Not sure why you’re thanking me when you did all the hard work.”
Her smile only grew. “Oh, you owe the push present to end all push presents after this.”
Pressing a kiss to her temple, I murmured, “Anything you want, it’s yours.”
“You know what I want.”
Eyes falling shut, I released a heavy sigh. Yeah, I did, and it was something money couldn’t buy.
She wanted John to make a miraculous reappearance. Even if it were possible to flip some internal switch and be that man for her, I couldn’t afford to grant that wish. Not now, at least. Not when I was engaged in a war that put my family’s safety at risk.
But I refused to let the shadows of those looking to take me down and eliminate my bloodline darken this day.
My son’s birth was cause for celebration, and that’s where I chose to focus my attention.
Come tomorrow, I would go back to work, figuring out how to protect his future.
Chapter 25
Rory
Everysteppulledatmy stitches, the ice pack shoved into my panties providing only a fraction of relief to my sore and swollen lady bits, as I shuffled down the hallway toward the nursery.
When I reached the open doorway to Luca’s room, I paused on the threshold, my heart swelling at the beautiful sight I found within.
Gio was seated in the glider, shirtless, our sleeping son atop his chest. Our baby boy wasn’t small by any means—weighing in at nine pounds, five ounces—but he looked tiny against his daddy’s broad frame.
My husband was a hardened criminal; his large hands had taken countless lives, so it was almost startling to see how gently they cradled the infant in his arms.
