Page 164 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
When we did, we did it in a room no one else could find.
We did the naming in our kitchen with the blinds turned the wrong way so the street had to guess at us.
Rafe came in a shirt with buttons that looked confused and held Lucia like she might evaporate.
Rosa brought a paper bag with bread and a stare for anyone who thought about calling it a party.
Tino took my phone apart and put it back together and pretended it was a blessing.
My mother cried, then pretended she had something in her eye, then fed everyone until the table apologized.
There was no speechmaking.
We don’t do poetry out loud.
We do promises that sound like tasks.
Keep the door locked.
Keep the stroller out of the hallway.
Keep her warm.
Now, months later, everything is both harder and easier.
The brownstone holds us like it always meant to.
The windows still look at brick and a piece of sky.
The couch still thinks It's a bed.
Nico still checks the latch with a small ritual.
I still roll my eyes and then check the other side.
We are boring in a way I would have sworn I could not survive.
It turns out I can.
Work changed, then stayed the same.
I'm back on the floor at St. Adrian’s three days a week, day shift.
I rotate through NICU and the step-down unit because those are the places where you can see a future and a fight in the same hour.
I keep my head down and my eyes up.
Rizzo runs interference on the nosy and the unkind.
She also hides Lucia’s pictures under the plastic cover of my clipboard so I can see them without making a show of them.
We have a private code for trouble baked into normal talk.
Extra shift means someone asked a question they should not ask.
Burnt loaf means Nico picks me up at the front desk, kisses my hair, and breaks something small in the waiting room so the room looks at him, not me.
We have not needed the codes in months.
