Rafael
Three months later, Manhattan
“If any of you motherfuckers says one more word about my breathing, I am going to start shooting. I don’t give a damn if we’re in a hospital, I will turn this maternity ward into a goddamn cemetery.”
I’m pacing the length of the private medical wing like a caged tiger that’s been poked with a high-voltage cattle prod. The fluorescent lights are biting into my retinas, and the smell of antiseptic is making my stomach do a slow, sick roll. Every few minutes, a muffled scream rips through the double doors of the delivery suite, and every time it does, my heart stops.
Twelve hours. Twelve goddamn hours.
“Rafe, sit the fuck down,” Matteo says, leaning against the wall with a glass of scotch he definitely didn’t get from the cafeteria. He looks annoyingly calm, though I can see the slight tension in his jaw that tells me he’s just better at hiding the panic. “You’re wearing a hole in the linoleum. The floor tiles didn’t do anything to you.”
“She’s in there screaming her lungs out because of something I did to her!” I snap, running a hand through my hair until it’s standing in jagged peaks. I’m a mess. My tie is gone, my shirt is wrinkled, and I’m pretty sure I’ve reached a level of hysteria that would make an O’Rourke look like a zen master. “Why isn’t it over? The doctor said she was ‘progressing.’ Progressing to what? A goddamn heart attack?”
Dante snorts from the corner, where he’s sitting with Bianca. He’s flipping through a parenting magazine with a smirk that I really want to punch off his face. “Twelve hours? Rafe, you’re a rookie. Bianca was in labor for twenty-two. By hour fifteen, I was pretty sure she was going to use my own belt to strangle me. Rafael, look at your hands. You’re shaking like you’re in a goddamn withdrawal.”
“I am not shaking,” I growl, tucking my hands into my pockets. “Shut the fuck up, Dante.”
Enzo walks over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He’s holding his daughter, little Sofia, who is fast asleep against his chest. He looks like a finished man—totally and utterly owned by the women in his life. “I remember when Matteo was in your shoes. The great Don of the Brotherhood, the man who consolidated the five families, was on his knees in the hallway of the clinic, practically sobbing into a paper cup because Alessia told him he was a ‘bastard who shouldn’t ever touch her again’ and that she wanted a divorce mid-contraction.”
Matteo glares at him, his ears turning a faint shade of red. “I was not sobbing. I was… reflecting on the miracle of life. While being verbally abused by a woman I adore.”
“You were a mess, Matteo,” Isabella chimps in, walking over with a tray of coffee and a sassy roll of her eyes. She looks at me, her expression softening. “Rafael, she’s doing great. She’s stubborn, remember? She’s currently telling the doctor that his forceps look ‘cheap and industrial’ and that she’s seen better equipment in a De Luca basement. She’s still Gia.”
I let out a breathy, dry laugh. Stubborn. My little Gia. “I just… I can’t lose her,” I mutter, the weight of the last nine months hitting me all at once. The peace, the nursery, the way she looks when she’s reading her books—it’s all balanced on the edge of a knife right now.
“You aren’t going to lose her,” Alessia says, appearing from the delivery room with a damp towel in her hand. She looks at Matteo, and the silent communication between them is enough to make the air hum. “But she wants to see you. If you aren’t inside that room in ten seconds, she says she’s naming the baby ‘Salvatore’ just to spite you.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” I growl, already moving.
I’m through those doors before the Brotherhood can even offer another insult.
The room is a blur of blue scrubs, beeping monitors, and the smell of sweat and effort. I find her in the center of it, looking pale, sweaty, and absolutely magnificent. She’s gripping the bedrails, her knuckles white, her eyes searching for me.
“Rafael,” she gasps as I reach her side.
“I’m here, baby. I’m right here.” I grab her hand, my fingers interlocking with hers. She squeezes so hard I think my metacarpals are actually grinding together, but I don’t care. I’d let her tear my arm off if it meant her pain was an ounce less.
“I… I hate you,” she moans as another contraction hits, her back arching off the bed. “I hate your suit, and I hate that you’re so goddamn handsome while I feel like I’m being split in half!”
“I know. I’m a bastard. I’m a monster.” I lean in, kissing her sweaty forehead, my heart hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs. “Just a little more, Gia. You can do this.”
The next hour is a raw, visceral reality. I watch the woman I love fight a war with her own body, and I realize that the ‘Butcher’ doesn’t know shit about strength. This is strength. This is life. This is the only thing that matters.
“One more push, Gia,” the doctor says, his voice calm amidst the storm.
Gia screams my name with a raw, jagged sound that tears through my soul and then the world goes quiet.
I look around, confused. Gia looks like she’s slumped, the doctors have paused, everywhere is silent.
Too silent.
What has happened?? Has… no, no, no…
I’m about to start raging when a sudden cry, high, sharp, and demanding rings out and I freeze.
Wha—
The doctor is holding up a small, squirming bundle of red skin and dark hair. My breath hitches. The world stops spinning. Even Gia manages to lean up a little.
It’s… it’s our baby… our child.
Our… child.
My heart is beating so fast and I don’t know what to think, joy, panic and happiness warring in my stomach.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor says, placing him on Gia’s chest.
Gia collapses back into the pillows, her breathing ragged, her eyes filling with tears as she looks down at the tiny human resting over her heart.
Shit, I can’t stay paralyzed like this, I need to do something.
I lean over them both, my hand shaking as I reach out to touch a tiny, perfect finger that curls around mine instantly.
“He’s beautiful,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“He looks just like you,” Gia breathes, a small, tired smile tugging at my lips. “Poor kid. He’s going to be a menace. We should probably start building his own basement now.”
“He’s not going near a basement,” I mutter, kissing the top of her head. “He’s going to be whatever he wants to be.”
A few minutes later, the doors open and the Brotherhood spills in. Matteo, Dante, Enzo, and their wives. They stand around the bed, a circle of steel and silk, looking at the newest member of the family. Laura is there too, standing on her tiptoes, her eyes wide with a wonder that makes all the blood I’ve spilled feel like a small price to pay.
“He’s so small,” Laura whispers, reaching out to touch the baby’s blanket.
“He’s a Caruso, that’s for sure,” Matteo says, his hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and steady. “He’s going to be the boss one day.”
Dante leans in, looking at the kid with a strange, soft look on his face before glancing at Bianca. “Kid looks like he’s already planning a coup. Watch your back, Rafe.”
Bianca slaps his arm. “Let them breathe, Dante. He’s perfect.” She turns to Gia, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You did amazing, Gia. Welcome to the club. The club where we never sleep and we’re always covered in something sticky.”
“I think I’m already there,” Gia laughs weakly, her eyes never leaving the baby.
Enzo and Isabella are standing by the window, Enzo’s arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Isabella catches my eye and winks—a knowing, sisterly look that tells me everything I need to know about the future. They’ve built something real, just like we have.
“What are you naming him?” Enzo asks, his voice low and respectful.
Gia looks at me, a silent question in her eyes. We’d talked about it, but the reality of him makes the choice feel different.
“Vittorio,” I say, the name tasting like redemption. “Vittorio Rafael Caruso.”
The room goes quiet for a heartbeat. It’s a name that carries a legacy of blood, but today, in this room, it feels like peace.
“Vittorio,” Matteo repeats, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “The Prince of the East. I like it.”
One by one, the couples begin to settle into the room, the tension of the day finally bleeding away. Isabella and Alessia are already debating which designer will make the baby’s first suit, while Dante and Enzo are arguing over which one of them will be the first to teach the kid how to throw a punch.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my arm around Gia’s shoulders, watching them. I look at Matteo and Alessia—the power and the passion that hold this Brotherhood together. I look at Dante and Bianca—the intensity and the fire that keeps it alive. I look at Enzo and Isabella—the fierce loyalty and the sanctuary they found in each other.
And then I look at Gia. My ghost. My quiet space. The woman who walked into a palace of blood and decided it was worth turning into a home.
“You okay?” I murmur against her ear.
“I’m perfect,” she whispers, her head leaning against my chest. “For the first time in my life, Rafael… I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just here.”
Laura climbs onto the bed, curling up at Gia’s feet, her eyes already starting to droop. “He needs a silver wolf, Gia. Like the one from the stories.”
“He has the real thing, Sweetie Pie,” Gia says, looking up at me. “He has the whole pack, just like you do.”
The afternoon sun begins to set over the Manhattan skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the room. I look at my brothers—the men who held me together when I was falling apart—and then back at my wife and my son. The war is a memory. The blood is washed away.
I look down at Vittorio, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythm of pure, unburdened potential. He doesn’t know about the warehouses or the snipers or the contracts. He only knows the warmth of his mother and the strength of his father.
And that’s how it’ll remain.
“Damn,” I mutter, a sense of absolute, terrifying love washing over me.
“Don’t swear near the baby, Rafael,” Gia chides, though her voice is full of affection.
“I wasn’t swearing,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips—a kiss that tastes like victory and a promise. “I just realised I have the best woman at my side.”
I look at my brothers, then back at my wife and my son. The war is a memory. The blood is washed away. And as the sun goes down over the hospital, I realize that the ‘Butcher’ finally has everything he ever wanted.
Damn. I really am the luckiest bastard in the world.
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