Page 130 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"We are going to protect her," Dante adds, joining us to complete the circle around our daughter. "From Giovanni, from the mafia world, from anyone who would try to use her or hurt her. She gets to choose her own path, make her own decisions, live her own life."
"She gets to be free," I say, and it feels like a vow. "The way Rosalina is free. The way we are all finally free."
Maggie opens her eyes—those indeterminate blue-gray eyes—and looks up at the three of us with what I swear is recognition.Like she knows these are her fathers. Like she understands she is safe.
"Hello, little one," I whisper. "Welcome to the family."
Three weeks later, I wake at three in the morning to the sound of crying from down the hall.
Rosalina stirs beside me, already starting to push herself out of bed, but I put a hand on her shoulder.
"I have got her," I say quietly. "You fed her two hours ago. Sleep."
She mumbles something that might be agreement or might be protest, but she settles back into the pillows, her hand reaching across the bed to where Dante is sleeping on her other side. Luca is in his own room tonight—we rotate who sleeps in the master bedroom, making sure Rosalina always has at least two of us with her.
I pull on sweatpants and pad down the hall to the nursery we built in what used to be a guest room. The walls are painted a soft lavender—Rosalina's choice—and covered with framed photos of the four of us. Maggie's crib sits in the center of the room, white and pristine, surrounded by more stuffed animals than any one baby could possibly need.
Luca is already there, lifting Maggie out of her crib with practiced ease. "I heard her fussing," he explains, settling into the rocking chair by the window. "I think she is just lonely. She doesn’t feel wet, and she can’t be hungry again already."
I move to stand beside the chair, watching as Luca rocks our daughter with a gentleness that contradicts everything about his mafia training. He is singing something in Italian—a lullaby his own mother used to sing, he told us once.
"You are good at this," I observe.
"So are you," Luca says, glancing up at me with tired but happy eyes. "So is Dante. We are all good at this."
"We had good teachers," I say, thinking of Seamus and how he raised Rosalina with love and discipline in equal measure. Thinking of Dante's mother, who came over last week and who spent three hours cooing over Maggie and giving us advice we barely remember through the fog of sleep deprivation.
"Do you ever think about what our lives would have been like if Rosalina had not walked down that aisle?" Luca asks quietly, still rocking Maggie. "If Erin had married Dante like she was supposed to? If we had never met her?"
I consider the question seriously. "I think we would have been half-alive. Going through the motions. Doing our jobs but never really feeling anything."
"I think you are right," Luca agrees. "She gave us permission to be human. To want things. To love."
Maggie has fallen back asleep, her tiny rosebud mouth slightly open, her hand curled into a fist against Luca's chest. He doesn’t stop rocking, just keeps the gentle motion going, unwilling to disturb her peace.
"Do you want to take her?" Luca offers.
I nod, and he carefully transfers her to my arms. She weighs nothing and everything simultaneously—this tiny person who carries all our hopes and dreams and fears.
I settle into the rocking chair, and Luca sits on the floor beside me, his head resting against my knee. We sit like that in the quiet darkness, the only sound Maggie's breathing and the creak of the rocking chair.
"I never knew I could be this happy," Luca says after a while. "It almost scares me. Like something this good cannot possibly last."
"It will last," I tell him, because I refuse to believe otherwise. "We will make it last. Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," Luca echoes.
The door opens quietly, and Dante appears, wearing only pajama pants, his hair disheveled from sleep. "Everyone okay?"
"Everyone is perfect," I assure him. "Maggie just needed some company."
Dante moves into the room, and Luca shifts to make space for him on the floor. We sit together in the predawn darkness—three men, one sleeping baby, and the overwhelming knowledge that this is what we were always meant to be.
Not soldiers. Not weapons. Not criminals.
Fathers. Husbands. Family.
"Rosalina is going to kill us if she wakes up and we are all gone," Dante observes.
