Page 142 of Cartel Devil

“Humph.”

I love that no matter how big my belly’s gotten—and I’d say huge considering our first two sons were both nine-six—Joaquin’s arms still reach around. He was right when he reassured me that if he can carry his brothers, he can carry me when I’m preggers. It’s awkward at the end because my belly’s in the way, but we seize any opportunity for sex, even if it’s on the way to the kitchen during naptime. That’s how we’re having baby number three. Pretty sure that’s how Madeline and Javier are on number three too.

Turns out, I wasn’t having the first member of the next generation. It was Madeline who was already pregnant. They were going to tell the family at the Sunday dinner after Alejandro and Toria’s housewarming party, but Joaquin and I stole the show. After that, with everything that happened with my pregnancy, they didn’t feel right announcing something joyous when someone was trying to kill Joaquin’s and my baby.

Madeline and Javier’s son Josue is three months older than our Alfonso. We named him after my brother. We had another name picked out, but the moment the doctor held him up, we knew Alfonso was the right name. He looked like the spitting image of my brother in his newborn photo. However, at three, Lonso’s lighter hair darkened. He already had brown eyes. With each year, he’s grown to look more like Joaquin.

Those damn Diaz genes.

Tía Margherita pulled out Pablo’s high school genetics project to show us after Lonso was born. Josue came out a carbon copy of Javier. They named him Josue after Luciana’s father. Of all Tres J’s, Javier apparently bears the closest resemblance to their grandfather. It’s truly astonishing.

“What’re you thinking about, chica? Picking out a property?”

Joaquin’s hand continues to rub my lower back as the other comes to rest on my belly. I lean my head against his chest and sigh. I close my eyes, utterly content. Besides being with our children too, life doesn’t get better than when I’m with my husband.

“No. Just wondering if I might get a child who looks even a little like me.”

Joaquin turns me toward him, and he slides both hands down to my ass, kneading the sore muscles. I moan in pleasure as it eases my discomfort. He moans as I feel him hardening.

“Blond hair, green eyes, with a permanent tan. Sounds cute.”

Joaquin kisses my cheek before leading me to the steps into the ocean. Floating is far more comfortable than standing these days. This is one of those times where I can wrap my legs around his waist without my belly in the way because I lean all the way back into water that’s more like bathwater than ocean.

“You’re really sure you’re okay?”

“Daddy, you’ve been like this every time. I hit seven months, and you start to panic if I walk past the mailbox.”

I knew we had to take this trip now, or the opportunity would pass us by. Reasonably, flying any later into my pregnancy was risky. Joaquin would’ve flipped out if I suggested even a week later than now.

“It’s not panic. It’s preparation.”

While my pregnancy with Lonso progressed smoothly, and there were no signs that we needed to worry, it remained high risk. As soon as Joaquin heard those two words, he was ready to bubble wrap me. I get it though. My first delivery went a bit sideways.

Lonso was a big baby. That came as a surprise since one of our greatest fears after the poisoning was that he might be premature or that he could have a low birth weight. We knew there weren’t any tests that could definitively tell us whether the thallium would cause developmental challenges, but I was monitored for my own thallium levels, which remained exceedingly low. With wealth comes privilege, and that meant I received far more high-res ultrasounds that most women. They tracked placental health and my amniotic fluid. The excessive amount had nothing to do with the thallium—I’ve just always been an overachiever.

Even with my broad hips, he managed to turn himself the wrong way at the last minute. At thirty-seven weeks, Tía Margherita and the obstetrician—who was fine, but Tía was far better—had to perform an external cephalic version and induce me.

“Mhmm. And that’s why you have an obstetrician on call here, Joaco.”

Joaquin didn’t panic during my delivery. He would never. But he’s far more empathetic than anyone could imagine. Basically, they pressed on my belly to nudge Lonso back into the right position. By nudge, I mean press on me like they were trying to deflate a basketball in record time. The first sign of my son’s stubbornness should have stood out that day. He flipped back around because I had an excess amount of amniotic fluid. They did a second version. Fortunately, I dilated fast enough to push before he could swim around a third time. Then there was the wait to see what state he would be in. If there would be any recognizable conditions or complications the testing couldn’t pick up on. There were none and have been none.

“Yes. Why not take precautions if we can, chica?”

All this is to say, my poor husband loves getting me pregnant, loves seeing me pregnant, loves being a father, but has a near-debilitating phobia of deliveries. For a man who survives on being in control, feeling that helpless as he watches his wife in labor is nearly more than he can manage. He hides it well. He never makes it about himself. If I didn’t know him like I do, I’d never be able to tell. But this may be our last child because I don’t think I can put him through this again after this baby’s born.

“I do appreciate it, Daddy. You know I’d plan for all of these what-ifs even if you didn’t.”

“But it’s one less thing for you to worry about, chica.”

“I love you.”

I say it so unexpectedly and in a tone that I guess surprises him.

“I love you, chica.”

He supports my back as he pulls me upright.

“I’m feeling better now. Want to go back in?”