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TWENTY-FIVE

F allon

I’m never doing this again.

Ever.

They say labor pain is the type of pain you forget; they must have been whacked off their face or perhaps knocked out.

I promise you, I will never forget this.

If this baby tries to convince me of a sibling one day, I’ll personally walk out of the house and start a new life.

Maybe that’s why Mom left, and the rest was just an excuse.

Maybe she wanted to spare us the heartache of learning we tore her from ass to navel.

She needed to forget the demons that pulverized her birth canal with their giant heads.

“If you ever ask for a sibling for this baby,” I hiss through ragged breaths, “I will pack my bags and move to another continent. Do you hear me? Another continent, Leone.”

He reaches out tentatively, his calloused fingers brushing against mine like he thinks I might bite him.

“Tesoro, just breathe,” he coaxes, his voice soft but trembling slightly at the edges.

His Italian accent thickens when he’s nervous.

“You’re doing amazing.” Leone crouches beside me like he isn’t white-knuckling the bed frame in horror, while this creature spawned from his family jewels is splitting me in half with its big head.

It’s definitely his kid, there is no doubt, this kid’s head is as big as Leone’s fucking ego.

“Don’t you dare tell me to breathe!” I snarl, snapping my head toward him so fast it sends a fresh jolt of pain down my spine. “You breathe! You push an entire human out of your body and see how amazing you feel!”

Leone flinches but doesn’t back away, his jaw tightening as he tries to keep his composure. “Okay, okay… no breathing advice,” he murmurs apologetically, holding up his hands like a man surrendering to an armed assailant. “But you’re still doing great.”

“Great?” I bark out a humorless laugh that turns into a grimace as another contraction claws its way through me. “I feel like I’m giving birth to that football-headed kid from Hey Arnold! Or—or E.T .!”

He looks like he’s witnessing an exorcism, and in a way, he is. This kid is exorcising every last bit of my patience and sanity. “Get it out!” I scream, the words ripped from me, raw and desperate. “Or knock me out, I don’t want to do this no more!”

“The doctor said soon, amore,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. He tries to smooth a stray strand of hair from my sweat-slicked forehead, but I jerk my head away.

“Don’t amore me right now, you… you instigator of planetary-sized craniums!” I gasp, panting. “This is all your fault. Your giant-headed genes. I bet your mother had a hell of a time with you!”

He actually cracks a small, pained smile at that. “I’m going to complain about this for the rest of my life. You’ll never hear the end of it. Every birthday, every holiday, I’m going to remind you of the demon with the head of the prize-winning pumpkin you forced out my vagina!”

A nurse, bless her with her seen-it-all heart, bustles in with a doctor slipping on gloves.

They start probing and pulling me down the bed, and suddenly my legs are being forced into stirrups.

My nails dig into his hand, and I’m pretty sure I hear a bone crunch, but frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.

He deserves it. This is all his fault. His ridiculously potent sperm, and these twisting contractions are going to kill me.

I glance at the doctor, who’s hovering at the business end of things, looking far too calm for someone witnessing an exorcism of my vagina.

Another wave crashes over me, a tsunami of agony that steals my breath and makes my vision swim. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ride it out.

“Okay, Fallon, on the next one, I need you to push,” the doctor says.

Easy for her to say; this is the worst torture I can imagine.

The contraction peaks, a searing, tearing sensation that makes me scream, a raw, animalistic sound I barely recognize as my own.

I bear down, pushing with everything I have, every ounce of strength, every fiber of my being focused on this one, agonizing task.

The room blurs, sounds warp, and the only thing real is the fire ripping through me.

“Again!” the doctor urges.

I take a ragged breath, or try to, and push again, my body arching off the bed. Leone’s hand tightens on mine, his other hand on my forehead, trying to soothe me.

“I can see the head!” someone says. I don’t know who, I don’t care. All I care about is the pressure, the burning, the feeling like I’m being split open from the inside out.

“Just try to focus, Fallon,” a calm, annoyingly serene voice says from somewhere near my knees. That’ll be Dr. Henderson, the woman who’s seen more of my nether regions today than I have in a lifetime.

“Okay, Fallon, here comes another one,” Dr. Henderson says, her tone becoming a little more urgent. “Push. Now, your baby is right there!”

My baby. The thought flickers through the haze of pain. This tiny human, this source of all my current misery, is also… ours. A part of him, a part of me.

With a guttural roar, I give one final push, and then, unbelievably, the pressure eases. The tearing stops. There’s a sudden, slick rush, and then… a cry.

A tiny, furious, surprisingly loud cry.

My head falls back against the pillows, every muscle in my body screaming in protest, but I’m too exhausted to care. I just lie here, gasping, sweat plastering my hair to my face, as the room erupts in a flurry of activity.

Leone is saying something, his voice thick with emotion, but I can’t quite make out the words. Then, a small, bundled form is placed on my chest. Warm. Heavy. Wriggling.

My world stops.

And suddenly, he’s in my arms, squirming.

I gaze down, and through a blur of exhaustion and tears, I see it. Him. A tiny, red-faced creature with a thatch of dark hair already plastered to his head. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth open in a continuous wail. He’s… perfect.

Luca Anthony Pressutti.

Mine.

I pull him higher up my chest, breath catching as the nurses clean around us, stitching me up while I stare down at the wrinkled, wailing miracle I somehow made. His little fingers curl against my collarbone. His mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to speak already. Of course he is. He’s ours.

“Hi,” I whisper, voice cracking. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Sometime later, once the nurses clear out, the overhead lights dim, and I finally notice how quiet the room’s become. I’m half-drunk on exhaustion and adrenaline, but I don’t want to close my eyes.

Leone sits at the edge of the bed, cradling Luca like he’s holding the entire world in his arms and needs to protect it.

He glances down at him, then at me. “Thank you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for giving him to me.”

I nod, but I can’t find the words. I don’t need to. He knows.

Milo’s by the door, still caught between hovering and hiding. He’s always afraid of getting too close to something he doesn’t believe he deserves.

Leone looks over at him. “Come here.”

Milo hesitates, then walks forward slowly. He stares down at Luca, eyes wide. “He’s… perfect.”

“He is,” Leone agrees. “They both are.”

I reach for Milo, pat the space beside me. He sinks down next to me, one arm around my shoulders as we both stare at Leone cooing at our son like he hasn’t killed men with those same hands.

Then Leone glances at him. “You want to hold him?”

Milo freezes. That question always gets him.

He still hasn’t quite accepted that he’s part of this, even now.

But after a second, he holds out his arms. Leone carefully passes Luca into them like he’s handing over fire. Milo goes stiff at first, then melts as Luca’s little face turns toward his chest.

He doesn’t look away.

“He’s warm,” Milo says, stunned.

Leone leans over, kisses my forehead, then presses his lips to mine, soft and certain.

And Milo… Milo looks up, hesitant.

“You’re not worried?” he asks. “What people will think?”

I know that fear. It’s his quiet ache, that this family, this love, this moment might evaporate because of what’s expected.

Leone just shrugs, brushing his thumb along Luca’s cheek. “Who the hell cares what people think? Let someone try to say something.”

Milo laughs softly. “He’ll probably wonder, you know? Two dads. Two different names.”

“Then change your name to Pressutti,” Leone says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Simple.”

“That easy, huh?” Milo smirks. “You realize people will think we’re together.”

Leone groans. “My own father is too scared to even make eye contact with me right now. You’re worried about people ?”

“Change it. Don’t. I don’t care. It’s up to you,” Leone mutters.

Milo gazes down at Luca again. His jaw twitches like he might say something else, but instead, he nods. “We’ll change it, but…”

Leone narrows his eyes. “But…?”

Milo sighs. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Good. And it’s the last I want to hear about it.”

I smile, resting my head against Milo’s shoulder.

Luca whines, mouth searching. Hungry.

Milo lifts him carefully and hands him over. I shift, settling him in my arms, guiding him to nurse.

And just like that, everything else fades away.