Page 166 of The Don’s Omega

Baby Adriano eats every two hours. Not approximately. Not when he gets around to it. Every two hours, like clockwork. I’ve seen train conductors with less of a grasp on time and schedules. Every two hours the little demon opens his mouth and screams until someone fixes the situation. That someone is usually me. There’s no cajoling him either. He has his father’s unwillingness to negotiate.

At the moment, it’s 4:00 a.m. and I’m not thrilled about the fact that instead of being curled in my warm bed with Marcello, I’m in the rocking chair in the nursery with Baby Adriano latched on. My irritation is only slightly softened by the sight of his small fist pressed against my chest, and his thick lashes against his chubby cheeks.

Marcello offered to take this feeding but I told him to sleep. While I’m exhausted, I can bumble around tomorrow in sweats mumbling to myself. He has to actually go out and talk to people like a real person. He has a meeting where he’ll have to face a room full of capos who are annoyed about something. They’re always annoyed about something. He shouldn’t do that on no sleep. It’s too dangerous. When I declined his offer to feed Baby Adriano, he argued for about ten seconds and then passed out. That just hammered home what the last month has been like for us. We’re more like zombies than new parents.

It’s been a full month since Baby Adriano was born. It doesn’t feel like a month. It feels like a week that lasted two years. The days have collapsed into a cycle of feeding, burping, changing, rocking, and the brief stretches of unconsciousness that I’m told qualify as sleep. I haven’t showered before noon in weeks and not even every day. I eat whatever Ornella puts in front of me, standing up, usually with one hand, usually cold. I have spit-up on at least one piece of clothing at all times. Fabio helps every chance he gets, and Marcello’s family helps too, but there are times when the baby only wants me and he won’t take no for an answer.

The stupid thing is, I’ve never been happier in my life. I’m sleep-deprived and up to my elbows every day in dirty diapers, but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. It all comes down to some simple facts. Fabio is healthy, Marcello loves me, and Baby Adriano is now a part of our world.

The baby finishes eating and pulls off and makes a face like he’s considering whether to scream about something else, or to sleep. I lift him to my shoulder and pat his back and wait. He burps with a force that seems physically impossible for someone who weighs eleven pounds, and then he goes limp against me.

I should put him in the crib, but I don’t. I sit in the dark with his weight on my shoulder and his breath against my neck. While these mornings are torture, I also enjoy them on some level. It’s just me and Baby Adriano as I watch the window lighten by degrees, the garden going from black to gray, the shapes of the trees emerging.

Some mornings I think about my parents. Not with grief exactly, though that’s still there. I think it always will be. But these emotions are more about feeling a solidarity with them. After all, I’m sure my parents did this too. They sat in the dark with their babies and probably talked about the future. About their hopes and dreams for us and themselves. If they’re looking down on us now, I hope they know how hard I tried to be there for Fabio when they died. I hope they’re proud of me.

I hope Mom forgives me for it being her in that car instead of me.

I jump when Marcello appears in the doorway of the nursery. His hair is sticking up and he’s wearing silk pajamas that are buttoned wrong. “Come to bed,” he mumbles, leaning on the doorjamb. “Bring the baby if you want, but I can’t sleep without you in the bed.”

“Are you sure we won’t disturb you?” I ask, standing.

“You not being there is what’s disturbing me.” He sounds grumpy as he puts his big hand on the back of my neck and steers me toward our bedroom.

The three of us climb into bed. I don’t lie down because I worry I’ll roll over and squash or suffocate Baby Adriano, but I sit beside Marcello. That seems to work for him because he snuggles against me with his head in my lap. I run my fingers through his dark hair, smiling down at him.

“Mama is planning a huge Easter thing here,” he mumbles. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll cancel it.”

“No, don’t cancel it. She told me already. It sounds like fun.”

He snorts. “The baby won’t even remember it. It’s dumb and a waste of time, money, and most importantly energy.”

I laugh. “You’re so damn tired you don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do so,” he grouses, snuggling against me some more. “I’m sick of people. I want to just be with you and the baby. Make all the other people go away, will you?”

“Okay. The only way I know how to do that is to take a little trip. Maybe we could fit that in after Mama’s Easter thing.”

He groans. “Why must you be so accommodating to my family?”

“You love that about me.”

“Not when I don’t get what I want.” He sounds like a bratty kid.

“Marcello, Serafina said this Easter thing was always a tradition with your family. All through the generations. She said your family has never missed a year.”

“God, shouldn’t she want a break from the boring Easter thing?” He sighs. “I do.”

I frown down at the back of his head. “I’m surprised at you, Marcello. This means a lot to your mother.” I clear my throat. “And also… I… I like traditions. I’d give anything to celebrate some family traditions with my parents. You shouldn’t take them for granted. You of all people know that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.”

He goes very still and then he lifts his head. The morning light filtering through the curtains shows guilt shimmering in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m acting like a baby because I’m tired from… you know… our baby.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I know, but if your family were gone tomorrow, wouldn’t you wish you’d spent this Easter with them?”

“Yes.” He sits up. “I’m sorry, Elio. You’re right. I’m delirious with lack of sleep. Forgive, mio. I’ll do better.”

I take hold of his chin. “You’d better. Family is everything.”

“It is. You’re right.” He leans in and kisses me. “How can I make it up to you? Shall I dress up like the Easter Bunny if Mama asks me again this year?”