Page 162 of The Don’s Omega

“Yes?” He says distractedly, texting on his phone.

“I appreciate you’re taking charge of things.” I smirk. “But I think it’s best if you… uh… put on pants before you… inspect the troops.”

He looks down at his boxers. “Oops. I’ll be right back.”

I salute him, grinning. “Sir, yes, sir.”

****

My water breaks at 8:45 a.m. while I’m sitting on the edge of the tub trying to decide if I should shower. It’s not a dramatic gush. It’s a warm, sudden leak that soaks through my sweatpants.

“Shit. My water just broke.”

Marcello is buttoning his shirt and he glances over. “Really?”

“Seeing as I’m pretty sure I didn’t pee myself, I’m going to say yes?”

His jaw twitches. “Okay, I’ll help you change. Let’s see, the bag is in the car. Anthony is out front, engine running. Dr. Vasquez is already on the way to the hospital per my request and Carlo is on standby in case he’s needed.”

“I see,” I mutter as he helps pull off my wet sweatpants. “But did you alert the coast guard and the air force while you were at it? We might also need the Marines.”

He squints at me. “Don’t mock me, Elio. It’s good to be prepared.”

“There’s prepared and then there’s over-prepared.”

“Ha.” He shakes his head. “That’s not a thing.”

Once I’m in dry pants, we head out to the car. No shower for me. The morning air is chilled against my sweaty, overheated skin and it feels nice. Anthony does indeed have the car running and he hovers as Marcello helps me into the SUV.

The drive to Harbor View Medical takes fourteen minutes. I know this because Marcello meticulously counts the duration of every contraction. The contractions are closer now, six minutes apart, and they’ve changed. The feeling of a belt has been replaced by something else. It’s now more like a deep grinding pressure low in my pelvis that makes me want to stand up. I press my forehead against the cool window and Marcello keeps his hand on my thigh.

Anthony pulls up directly in front of the entrance, and Marcello is out of the car before I’ve even managed to get my door open. He comes around, takes my arm, and walks me inside with the overnight bag in his other hand.

The lobby smells like floor cleaner and burnt coffee. The woman behind the front desk looks up, and her expression changes the instant she sees Marcello.

“Mr. Foschini.” Her voice wobbles.

“Labor and delivery,” he says. “Now.”

She’s already on her feet. “Of course.”

Someone appears with a wheelchair almost immediately. I start to protest, but Marcello gives me a look that shuts me up. I haven’t seen that look from him in a long time. It’s very effective. I get into the wheelchair without a peep.

The woman behind the desk is already on the phone, speaking quickly to someone upstairs. Nobody asks Marcello for insurance information. Nobody tells us to take a seat. Within minutes, an orderly is wheeling me toward the elevators while another staff member hurries alongside us.

We’re taken straight to a private room on the fourth floor. It’s bigger than I expected, but then of course it is. I’m not just anyone. I’m Marcello Foschini’s omega. The bed has rails, buttons, and enough equipment attached to it to make me nervous. A television hangs on the wall, and someone has already set a cup of ice chips on the rolling table beside the bed.

The nurse arrives. She’s maybe fifty, short and compact, with reading glasses on a beaded chain and gray-streaked hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Her name tag reads Maureen, and she looks very unimpressed with the entire situation.

“Okay, Dad.” She looks at Marcello. “Don’t touch the monitors. Don’t touch the IV pole. If you feel faint, sit in that chair over there, not the bed. The bed is for my patient. Questions?”

Marcello appears taken aback as he blinks at her. “No.”

“Good. On second thought, why don’t you sit right now? You look a little pale around the gills and I don’t want you passing out and cracking your head open. Go on, sit.” Surprisingly, he obeys. She turns to me. “Now let’s see where we are.”

She checks me with quick, no-nonsense hands and declares me four centimeters dilated. She delivers this information like a weather report. Partly cloudy, four centimeters, chance of baby by evening.

“Only four?” I groan.