Page 236 of Diego

Checking.

Making sure.

Nobody has said much about the house since we arrived. There will be time for that tomorrow, along with questions about the men who attacked it, the two who survived, the companies I was investigating, and whatever the Atlantic City Contis intend to do with what was found at the other property.

Tonight, however, we're here for an entirely different reason.

Donna is having a baby.

Lorenzo has no idea what the rest of his family did while he was upstairs with his wife.

That part has become increasingly amusing the longer we sit here.

Edoardo checks the doors again. “How long has it been?”

Alessio looks at him. “Since the last time you asked?”

Edoardo sighs and leans back in his chair. “Forget I said anything.”

Mario looks over from beside Victoria. “Good idea.”

There is just enough humor in his voice to make Matteo grin.

The tension breaks for a few seconds, and even I smile. It is strange how quickly this family can move between violence and ordinary life, between guns and hospital chairs, between blood on their clothes and arguing about who gets blamed when Lorenzo eventually learns what happened.

Maybe that is part of why the house has started feeling different to me.

There is always something happening around the Contis. Someone is getting married, having a baby, buying a company, getting arrested, being threatened, going into labor, showing up with food, showing up with weapons. The scale changes. The family does not.

My hand moves automatically toward my stomach, and his follows a second later.

The baby is fine.

The words still feel enormous.

I turn my hand beneath his and thread our fingers together.

He looks down at them, then at me.

“Good?” he asks softly.

I nod.

His expression changes in a way I am starting to recognize. It is the same look he had during the ultrasound when Dr. Mehta said she could not find the hematoma anymore. Relief first, then something deeper that he does not always put into words.

He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.

A door opens at the far end of the waiting area.

Everyone looks up.

Lorenzo steps through wearing dark pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks exhausted, but there is something different about him that I have never seen before. His face has softened in a way that makes him seem almost younger.

Then he stops, tilts his head, and a puzzled look crosses his face.

His gaze moves from Mario to Ricardo, then Diego, Dante, Matteo, Tomasso, Edoardo, and Alessio.

He takes in the blood. The dirt. The torn clothing. The scrapes.