Chapter 5 - The Birth at the Safehouse
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by the time we burst out of the drainage grate onto the abandoned concrete piers of the East River.
The wind whipped across the dark water, driving icy needles of rain into our skin. Grace collapsed against a rusted shipping container, biting her lower lip until it bled to keep from screaming as another brutal contraction tore through her body.
“Hold on, sweetheart. Just a little longer,” I urged, pulling out my encrypted satellite phone.
I punched in a secure three-digit code—direct to Marcus, the captain of my personal security detail, the only man in the syndicate I knew for absolute certain had not been corrupted by my mother’s bribes.
Ring... ring... click.
“Boss?” Marcus’s gruff voice barked through the static. “We heard chatter on the Rossi comm channels. They say you’re dead. They say Madame Elena took full control of the board.”
“Marcus, listen to me very carefully,” I snapped, shielding the phone with my hand against the driving rain. “I’m alive. I have Grace. But she is in active labor, and my mother’s hit squads are swarming the district. I need extraction at Pier 44, immediately. And bring a sterile medical kit.”
“On my way, Boss. Ten minutes.”
Ten minutes in our world was an eternity.
I scooped Grace up into my arms, ignoring the burning ache in my muscles, and carried her inside an abandoned harbor warehouse where crates of old contraband provided shelter from the wind. I laid her down gently on a stack of canvas tarps, stripping off my wet jacket to fold it into a makeshift pillow beneath her head.
“Julian... he’s coming. The baby is coming now,” Grace panted, her fingers digging deep into my forearms, her face slick with cold sweat and rainwater.
“Look at me, Grace. Look at my eyes,” I commanded gently, wiping the hair from her face. “Breathe with me. In... and out. You are the strongest person I know. You survived six months in that hellhole. You can do this.”
She let out a long, shuddering scream, arching her back as nature took over.
There were no doctors. No sterile hospital beds. No epidurals or comforting nurses. Just an underground heir, his imprisoned wife, an abandoned warehouse, and the raw, primal will to survive.
I rolled up my sleeves, my hands steady despite the adrenaline roaring in my ears. I guided her through the final, excruciating pushes, talking to her, encouraging her, pouring every ounce of my soul into her strength.
“One more big push, sweetheart! I see the head! He’s right here!”
With one final, desperate cry that echoed off the metal rafters of the warehouse, a tiny, fragile wail pierced the stormy night air.
I caught our son as he slid into my hands—slippery, warm, and howling with life.
I quickly cleared his airways, wrapping him in a clean section of the canvas tarp before lifting him up to place him directly against Grace’s chest.
Grace burst into tears, laughing and sobbing all at once as she clutched the tiny, kicking infant to her heart. “Our son... oh, Julian, look at him. He’s perfect.”
“He has your eyes,” I choked out, a rare tear cutting a clean path through the soot and rain on my cheek.
Suddenly, the screech of tires outside echoed through the warehouse doors.
Headlights cut through the cracked windows, sweeping across the walls. Heavy boots crunched on the gravel outside.
May you like
Marcus’s voice shouted through a bullhorn: “Boss! It’s us! Open up!”
The cavalry had arrived. But as the armored black SUVs rolled into the warehouse bay, I knew the real war—the war to reclaim our lives, our syndicate, and our family name from Elena Rossi—was only just beginning.
