Chapter 16 - OUR DAUGHTER CHOSE THE WORST POSSIBLE NIGHT TO ARRIVE
Z
Angelo disappeared for twenty-six days.
Chicago changed while we waited.
Police watched airports.
Federal agents monitored borders.
Every Moretti property was searched.
Rafe, still in custody, knew nothing.
Sophia knew nothing.
Isabella refused to leave her guarded apartment.
Vincent slept badly.
So did I.
But he kept his promise.
He didn’t turn our house into a fortress without discussing it with me.
We agreed together.
Two security officers.
Cameras.
A safe room.
No weapons stored in the nursery.
That last rule was mine.
Vincent accepted it.
At thirty-six weeks, I woke at 2:14 a.m. because I thought I had wet the bed.
Pregnancy was glamorous.
Then another contraction hit.
I stared at the ceiling.
“No.”
Vincent woke instantly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He sat up.
“You said no.”
“To the baby.”
His eyes widened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your daughter has terrible timing.”
Another contraction.
Stronger.
Vincent was out of bed before I could breathe.
“Hospital.”
“Not yet.”
“Hospital.”
“Vincent.”
He was putting on two different socks.
I stared.
“Are those mine?”
He looked down.
One black sock.
One pink sock.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Hospital.”
Despite the fear, I laughed.
My contractions were seven minutes apart.
Dr. Park said to come in.
Marco drove.
Vincent sat beside me holding my hand.
“You’re breaking my fingers,” he said.
“I’m giving birth.”
“Continue.”
We reached Northwestern at 3:02.
Security was already notified.
Federal agents remained nearby because Angelo was still missing.
I hated that detail.
But labor gave me better things to hate.
By five in the morning, contractions were four minutes apart.
By seven, I wanted to fire everyone.
By nine, I told Vincent that pregnancy was his fault.
He wisely agreed.
At 10:17, Rebecca Sloan walked into the hallway outside my room.
Vincent stepped out.
I saw his face change through the glass.
Something was wrong.
“Vincent!”
He returned immediately.
“What?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
He looked toward the hall.
Then back at me.
“Angelo was seen.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where?”
“Near the hospital.”
Of course.
Madison, who had been beside me feeding me ice chips, muttered, “This family has the worst timing.”
Vincent wanted me moved.
Dr. Park refused.
“She is in active labor.”
“We have a secure facility.”
“She is not luggage, Mr. Moretti.”
I loved Dr. Park.
Rebecca increased security.
Hospital entrances locked down.
Nobody entered the maternity floor without identification.
Hours passed.
No Angelo.
At 1:00 p.m., I was eight centimeters.
At 1:21, the lights flickered.
Every alarm inside me went off.
Backup power engaged immediately.
Vincent looked toward the door.
Then someone screamed in the hallway.
Gunshot.
My heart stopped.
“No.”
Vincent stood.
I grabbed his hand.
“Don’t leave.”
He looked at the door.
Then at me.
Years earlier, he would have gone.
He would have decided protecting me meant running toward danger.
This time, he stayed.
He pressed the emergency button.
Security locked our room.
Another gunshot sounded.
Madison crouched beside the bed.
Dr. Park remained astonishingly calm.
“Claire, breathe.”
“I’m trying!”
Vincent held my hand.
The door shook.
Someone tried the handle.
Security shouted outside.
Then silence.
Rebecca’s voice came through Vincent’s phone.
“We have him.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Angelo?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“One federal officer. Stable.”
Vincent looked at me.
“It’s over.”
I started crying.
Then screamed because apparently our daughter had decided emotional closure was a perfect cue for birth.
Dr. Park checked me.
“Ten centimeters.”
Vincent went pale.
“Is that good?”
Madison stared at him.
“You run multimillion-dollar companies.”
“I’ve never delivered a human.”
“Neither has Claire!”
“Thank you,” I gasped.
Forty-three minutes later, I pushed one final time.
Then the room changed forever.
A cry.
Small.
Furious.
Perfect.
Dr. Park lifted our daughter.
Vincent stopped breathing.
I cried before I even saw her.
Then they placed her on my chest.
Warm.
Tiny.
Dark hair flattened against her head.
Her fingers opened.
Closed.
I touched her cheek.
“Hi.”
Vincent stood beside the bed.
He was crying openly.
No hiding.
No turning away.
“Come here,” I whispered.
He leaned closer.
Our daughter opened her eyes for half a second.
Vincent laughed through tears.
“She has your nose.”
I stared at him.
“You spent six months saying it was yours.”
“I was wrong.”
“Document this moment.”
Madison was already filming.
“I have it.”
Vincent kissed my forehead.
Then touched one finger to our daughter’s hand.
She grabbed it.
His face broke.
“Hello, Emilia.”
I smiled.
Her name was Lily Emilia Bennett Moretti.
Lily because my father used to grow them beside our porch.
Emilia for the woman who had seen a future none of us understood.
Bennett because my history mattered.
Moretti because Vincent had earned the right to ask again.
Outside the hospital, Angelo Moretti was taken into federal custody for the final time.
Inside, his grandniece slept against my chest.
A child born into a family famous for power.
But if Vincent and I did our jobs correctly, she would grow up believing power meant something entirely different.
Not fear.
Not control.
Choice.
Truth.
Love.
Vincent sat beside me until everyone else left.
Then he whispered,
“Are you still going to marry me?”
I smiled.
“Ask me after I sleep.”
His face fell.
I laughed.
“Yes, Vincent.”
May you like
He kissed my hand.
And for the first time in years, the future did not scare me.
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