Page 157 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

I am not looking like anything except a man who has rehearsed this night for nine months with index cards and bribes.

I reach for the go-bag under the coat rack—one for her, one for the kid, one for the part of me that thinks a socket wrench fixes feelings.

She waves a hand.

“Not yet. I want one cookie first.”

“Dr. Conte said five-one-one.”

“She said I know my own body,” she counters, which is unfair because she does.

She takes one step.

Her water breaks in a neat, inevitable sheet that lands on my sock like fate picked a target.

We stare at each other.

She bites her lip.

I say, “Okay. We are getting the festive show on the road.”

“Don’t say festive show,” she says, already half laughing, half grimacing. “Help me change. Then call Rizzo. Then… call the elevator and threaten it.”

I move.

I’m good at moving.

Towel, dry pants, the bag with the gummy bears I pretended were for me.

I text Rafe and Tino.

Go time. St. Adrian’s. Boring convoy. No heroics. Wear normal hats.

Tino:Define normal.

Rafe:Already warming the car. Merry Christmas, Boss.

Elisa breathes through another contraction, hands on the counter, eyes on the tree like she’s bargaining with it. “You ready?” she asks me.

I am not, so I say, “Always.”

We take the stairs because the elevator in this building likes drama.

Outside, the air lifts the hair at the back of my neck and smells like wet iron and burnt sugar from the cart on the corner.

The street is wearing Christmas like a tux it can’t afford—string lights, paper stars taped to deli windows, a plastic nativity missing a wise man who probably eloped with the donkey.

Rafe idles at the curb, heat blasting, Santa air freshener hanging off the rearview by its neck.

Tino cruises past and peels off to take the corner.

The city glows like a television left on too late.

“Hey, Ma,” Rafe says to Elisa, too soft to be his usual. “I brought the good playlist so the baby comes out with taste.”

“Not the one with five versions of ‘Feliz Navidad,’” she warns.

“Three,” he says. “Four tops.”