But I can’t bring myself to regret it because Emma is pregnant with my baby and I want this. I want it so badly it physically hurts.
I’ve always wanted to be a father, but I’ve always thought about it in some distant, abstract way—someday, when the time is right, when I’ve found the right woman, when the business is more stable, when I’m not neck-deep in a war with the Brennans.
But I never thought it would actually happen. Men in my line of work don’t usually live long enough to see their kids grow up. We die young and violent and alone.
But now?—
Now I’m going to be a father.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating and overwhelming all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down at a drop that might kill me or might be the best thing that ever happened to me.
Will they be a boy? A girl?
I desperately hope for a girl. A little girl who looks like Emma with those incredible green eyes and auburn hair that catches the light like fire when the sun hits it, that fierce spirit that makes her argue with me even when she probably shouldn’t.
Smart and strong and absolutely fearless. Beautiful. Stubborn as hell.
Although maybe I could do without another Emma attitude. One is enough. One might actually kill me with the stress. Two might be the death of me.
But god, I want it. I want to see a miniature version of Emma running around this house and watch her grow up strong and fearless and capable. I want to teach her everything I know and watch Emma teach her everything she knows.
I want to be there for all of it.
My mother is going to lose her fucking mind. She’s been asking about grandchildren for years and has made pointed comments about how I’m not getting any younger and how the Santoro name needs to continue. She’ll be ecstatic and probably cry. She’s definitely going to start planning nurseries and baby showers before I even finish telling her.
My sister’s going to give me so much shit for being irresponsible and for having a baby. She’s probably also going to give me shit for not admitting she was right about my feelings for Emma—but never,everwill I admit I’m wrong to Valentina.
My hand tightens on Emma’s waist and she leans into me slightly, her body warm and solid and real against mine. Alive. Pregnant.Mine.
The standoff stretches. Nobody’s lowering their weapons. Nobody’s standing down. We’re all just…waiting. For someone to make a move. For someone to give an order.
For Connor Brennan to decide whether he’s going to restart this war or let his daughter go.
Connor is staring at Emma in disbelief. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His hands are flexing at his sides—open, close, open, close—like he wants to reach for his gun but is forcing himself not to.
He looks destroyed. Devastated. Like Emma just reached into his chest and ripped out his heart.
Good. He deserves it after what he did to Gabriel.
But looking at the grief on his face, I can almost understand it.Almost. If someone took my daughter from me, if someone kidnapped her and made her fall in love with them and got her pregnant?—
I’d end them right fucking there.
Finally, Connor moves. His hand twitches and for a second I tense, ready to shove Emma behind me and grab my own weapon.
But he’s not drawing. He’s holstering, putting his gun away.
“Everyone stand down,” he says roughly. “Lower your weapons. Now.”
The relief that floods through me is almost overwhelming. My men hesitate and look to me for confirmation and I nod. “You heard him. Stand down.”
Weapons lower slowly, suspiciously. Nobody’s putting them away completely. Nobody’s relaxing. But at least they’re not pointing at each other anymore.
The immediate threat passes, but the tension remains thick enough to cut.
Connor’s eyes when he looks at me are pure murder. If looks could kill, I’d be dead ten times over.
“We need to talk,” he says through gritted teeth. “Without guns.”