Page 121 of Possessive Mafia Vows

SIENNA

I wakeup early with the sunshine streaming through the open curtains of the bedroom in the cottage. The window is open, and I can hear the waves slapping the shore outside, the gulls calling boisterously to each other between land and sea before the new day gets started.

I’ve grown to love these sounds. The shush of the water across the shell-littered beach. Kyle’s key is the lock each time he arrives back from the States. His regular greeting, the one that makes my heart race: “I’m home, leoin.” The click-clack of his footsteps across the flagstone hallway as he explores the cottage to find me.

When he gets back later, we’ll take a picnic down to the beach and watch the sunset, and we’ll walk back to the cottage, hips bumping, and Kyle’s arm wrapped around me.

I cannot wait.

The lethargy that has taken over since our wedding a month ago and the family’s subsequent departure, is still in full swing. I told myself that it was the excitement of the wedding celebrations.The constant chatter of conversation while everyone was there. The sightseeing excursions, the barbecues, the meal-planning and the relentless flow of alcohol and champagne that had left me feeling exhausted.

Not that I was drinking. I was happy to watch everyone else enjoying themselves while the baby performed somersaults inside me.

Our wedding day was blissful. Blue sky overhead, warm grass underfoot, and everyone we love watching us recite our vows. Kyle had never looked more handsome in his open-necked white shirt and silver-gray pants. No suits. No ties. No lengthy ceremony.

We wanted it to be intimate, filled with love and joy and laughter.

Moira kept her shoes on, but she looked young and fresh in a floaty chiffon dress and a wide-brimmed hat.

I wore a simple white dress that belonged to my maternal grandmother. I never met her. She died the year before I was born, but I keep a photograph of her and my mom in a silver frame beside my bed, next to a picture of me and Kyle.

The women in our family die young.

I try not to dwell on this, but it’s always there, lurking in the back of my mind, just waiting for me to latch onto it and examine in more depth. Even though I keep the thought at bay, I wonder if it’s contributing in some way to my lethargy, and my continued reluctance to get back into the studio. Like a silent voice urging me to enjoy every moment with my child when he or she arrives, because life is too short.

As usual, I counter this with the eternally grateful reminder that Nick didn’t win. He didn’t beat me. He tried to knock me down, but he failed because good always triumphs over evil, or at least, that’s what the fairy tales would have us believe.

And I do believe in fairy tales these days.

Kyle might not be the angelic Prince Charming of ancient lore, but he is my prince. My soulmate. My happy-ever-after.

Shaking my head at my hormone-fueled musings, I plump the pillows up behind my head and haul myself into a sitting position. I reach for the novel on the nightstand,The Wolf and the Dove, an epic historical romance, the main characters of which are uncannily like me and Kyle in my head, as pain grips my abdomen.

I drop the book onto the floor and tears well in my eyes as my bookmark flies across the floor losing my place in the story.

I stare at my neon-pink toenails, painted badly because I can’t reach my feet with my swollen belly in the way, no matter which position I contort myself into. I practice breathing, in through my nose … hold … out through my mouth.

I’m sweating by the time the pain subsides.

I’d planned on staying in bed for a while—I’m almost at the end of the novel, only fifty pages to go—and Kyle isn’t flying back from New York until this evening. But I have to retrieve my bookmark, and the bottle of water on the nightstand is empty, and I need to clean the refrigerator.

Besides, there’s no way I’m going back to sleep now.

The practice contraction has left a dull ache blooming in my pelvis, my pulse racing, and my thoughts mulling over all thestuff that I still need to prepare before the birth. I was putting it off until after the wedding, and never seemed to get around to it, but I guess today is as good a day as any. There’s still a month to go,but you never know, as Moira keeps reminding me every time she calls.

I smile as I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed. I can almost hear the relief in Moira’s voice when I speak to her later and tell her that I’ve packed my bag and the baby’s bag ready for the hospital.

She was still trying to change my mind about having the baby in Ireland right up until the day they flew back to the States.

It was Terry who finally convinced her. “You were adamant that you were going to have Emily at home, remember, love?” He winked at me, like it was a private joke we’d concocted between us.

“Where did you have her?” I asked.

“At home.” Moira said. “Just like I wanted.”

“It wasn’t my choice, you see,” Terry continued. “But I wasn’t going to argue the point with a pregnant woman.”

Moira, realizing that she wasn’t going to win, took my hands in hers and looked me directly in the eye. “If you want me to be here for the birth, you only have to ask, Sienna.”

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