Page 131 of Desperate Games

It’s the hardest, most gutting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

And she’s not finished. While we’re cooing and awed by the sight of our twins, the doctor gives instructions gently this time, and I hold Andy’s hand while she pushes and delivers the afterbirth.

I haven’t prayed in a really long time.

But tonight? I prayed, I begged, I bartered. And now that it’s over, that they’re here, and she’s here—all healthy, all safe and sound.

I thank God.

Fuck. I thank God a thousand times.

For her.

For them.

For us.

Recovery is quick, and after some cajoling and a little threatening, the doctor allows us to go home forty-eight hours later.

We have a physician on call, so it’s not like anyone will be neglected. But Andy insists we be home for Christmas, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for this woman, including giving a thirty thousand dollar donation to the maternity wing of St. Agatha’s Hospital.

Christmas Day?

It’s madness, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I won’t let Andy or the babies out of bed just yet, so everyone’s coming here.

Volkovs, Furys, cousins, aunts, uncles—it’s a circus.

But it’s our circus.

My mom flew up from Florida, and she’s head over heels for Andy. Calls her my daughter like it was always meant to be.

Like she never doubted it.

And I love her for it. I hope she can feel better about retiring down in Florida now that she’s seen for herself how settled and happy we all are.

Meanwhile, the lawyer filed for dismissal of Julio’s custody suit. The fucker didn’t show for Christmas Eve visitation. And the Judge agreed—case closed.

Strange Christmas for law enforcement in Wharton and Dover, too.

Big drug bust. Stash house in flames. No survivors.

A coincidence, I’m sure.

At least, that’s what the official reports will say.

The whispers are different. They say the house was crawling with cartel muscle, product stacked from the floor to the rafters. They say the screams carried all the way to the turnpike before the fire swallowed it whole.

Me? I don’t say a word.

Oh, and I almost forgot. A suspected child pornographer under FBI radar in Weehawken, New Jersey, was found dead in his apartment.

Imagine that?

Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard a thing.

What the feds will write up as “accidental asphyxiation” is making the rounds in back channels.