Page 38 of Brutal Union
The kitchen is beautiful chaos. Sofia perches on the counter eating pastries while Dante signs something to Ana that makesher laugh despite her enormous belly. She must be nearly eight months now, looking ready to pop any moment. At the table sits a couple I don't recognize: a man with Marco's features but red hair and wilder energy, and an elegant woman who watches him with such open adoration it makes my chest tight.
"Leonardo," Marco says by way of introduction. "My cousin from New York. And his wife, Eleanor."
Eleanor turns to me with a smile that reaches her eyes, real warmth beneath the perfect makeup. "Another stolen bride, I hear." Her tone is light, but there's understanding there, recognition of a shared experience. "Welcome to the club."
I study her carefully as I take my seat. The designer dress, the manicured nails, the way she unconsciously leans toward her husband even while buttering toast. Every gesture speaks of casual intimacy, genuine affection. Is her happiness fake? Another performance for the family? Or can women like us actually find contentment in our cages?
Leo says something in Italian that makes Eleanor blush and swat his arm playfully. "Behave," she chides, but she's smiling, her whole face lit with it.
The gesture is so naturally intimate, so casually affectionate, that it makes my throat tight with longing I don't want to examine. She doesn't look like a woman pretending. She looks like a woman in love.
"Don't mind them," Sofia says, stealing bacon from Dante's plate. "Couples are nauseating. Give it a few years, Eleanor will be plotting his death like the rest of us."
Ana laughs at Sofia's joke, then suddenly doubles over with a gasp that cuts through all conversation. Pain and surprise and terror mix in the sound that escapes her. Liquid splashes onto the marble floor as her water breaks in a dramatic rush.
"Oh God," she breathes, clutching her belly with both hands, knuckles going white. "It's too early. The baby's not supposed to—"
The room erupts in panic. These men who kill without blinking, who run criminal empires with iron fists, stand frozen as Ana grips the table edge. Even Dante, usually so controlled, looks lost as his wife pants through a contraction that makes her whole body rigid.
My body moves before my mind catches up, my training overriding everything else. "Everyone step back." The command comes out sharp, authoritative, surprising even me. "Sofia, I need clean towels. Alex, call 911 but tell them we might not have time to wait."
Marco's eyebrows shoot up. "Valentina—"
"I was pre-med before Father ended my education." I'm already helping Ana to the living room couch, checking her pulse, noting how her skin has gone clammy. "Until he decided daughters didn't need careers."
I've always hidden this part of myself, the competent woman Father tried to erase. But Ana's eyes are wild with terror, and I choose to be who I really am, consequences be damned.
Sofia actually obeys, running for towels without her usual snark. Alex has his phone out, speaking rapidly to dispatch. But my focus is entirely on Ana, whose face has gone gray with pain.
"How far apart are the contractions?" I ask, keeping my voice calm despite the adrenaline flooding my system.
"I don't—they just started but—" Ana cries out as another one hits, barely thirty seconds after the last. Too fast. This is happening too fast.
I push her dress up, maintaining her modesty as much as possible while checking her dilation. What I find makes my heart stop. A tiny foot. God, no, not breech. But I force my expression to stay calm. These people are trusting me with everything.
"The baby's coming now," I tell the room, meeting Dante's eyes directly. "And we're not waiting for an ambulance."
"She's breech." The words are heavy in my mouth. "I need to turn her."
Ana's eyes go wild with terror, tears streaming down her face. "What? No, that's—Dante!" She reaches for her husband, who drops to his knees beside her, capturing her hands in his.
My hands are already moving, palpating her belly to determine the baby's exact position. Shoulder dystocia, the worst possible breech position. If I don't turn this baby now, both Ana and the child could die.
"I wish Van was here," Sofia mutters, and I remember. Van, the doctor who married their cousin Carmela. But he's in New York, and I'm all they have.
"I can do this," I tell them, locking eyes with Dante. "But I need you all to trust me completely."
For a man who communicates without words, Dante's response is eloquent. He studies me for one heartbeat, two, searching for something in my face. Then he nods once. Complete trust from a man who trusts no one.
"Marco, clear the room," I order, striding to the sink to wash my hands and arms with hot water and soap. "Everyone except you and Dante needs to leave. Now."
I feel Marco's eyes burning into me, sense his barely leashed need to control the situation warring with his recognition that I'm the only one who can help. But he moves, his voice low and commanding as he ushers extended family out.
My focus narrows to Ana, to the baby who needs to turn, to the blood that's starting to flow too fast. My hands are steady despite the stakes. This is what I was meant to do before Father stole that future.
"Ana, look at me." I grip her hand while my other works to manipulate the baby's position externally. "You're not going to die. Your baby isn't going to die. I promise you that."
"It hurts," she sobs, bearing down against the pain, her whole body shaking.
