Then we get to the baby.
“The child will be a Brennan,” Connor says flatly, like this is obvious.
“The child will be a Santoro,” I counter just as flatly.
“Brennan.”
“Santoro.”
Emma’s hand slaps the table hard enough that everyone jumps. “Are you two serious right now? The baby’s a blob of cells and you’re already fighting over what to call it?”
“Blob ofcells?” I repeat, looking at her in disbelief.
“Our blob of cells,” she amends, realizing her error. “A very important blob. Future Brennan or Santoro or whatever. But still. Can we maybe wait until, I don’t know, I’m actually showing? Or we know if it’s a boy or girl? Or literally any point that’s not right now when I’m exhausted?”
Connor and I exchange a look. It might be the first time we’ve agreed on anything—Emma has a point.
“Both,” Emma continues, not waiting for us to respond. “The baby will be both BrennanandSantoro. Hyphenated last name. Or we’ll figure something else out.” She points a finger at her father and me, her face twisted into an adorable scowl. “But you two don’t get to claim ownership of my child like it’s a piece of territory you’re negotiating over. Clear?”
“Clear,” I say, fighting back a smile at her tone.
Connor just nods, though he looks constipated.
My hand settles on her stomach again, wanting to needle the asshole some more.
Connor stands up abruptly, his chair scraping back. “I need air.”
One of his advisors follows him out. We hear him in the hallway, probably trying not to put his fist through a wall.
Emma twists in her chair and pinches my side. I wince. “Was that really necessary?”
I grab her hand and lace our fingers together before bringing our joined hands to my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.
Dante sighs heavily and looks up at the ceiling, as if looking for the answer to why he’s still working for me.
When Connor comes back ten minutes later, his jaw is still clenched but his hands are steadier.
We keep negotiating.
What happens if something happens to Emma? What happens if something happens to me? Who gets custody of the baby?
That conversation nearly ends in bloodshed. Connor’s hand drift toward his gun three times and one of his advisors actually touches his holster before Connor waves him off with a sharp gesture.
“If something happens to Emma,” Connor says dangerously, “the baby comes to me and Teresa. That’s final.”
“If something happens to Emma,” I say just as dangerously, “the baby stays with me. Their father.”
“Their grandfather?—”
“Theirfather,” I repeat firmly. “Who loves them. Who will raise them. Who will make sure they know everything about their mother.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Emma says loudly, cutting through our argument and looking at us in disbelief. “Can we please not plan my funeral while I’m sitting right here? It’s morbid and also kind of insulting. I literally just escaped a panic room and survived a war zone. I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.”
“We have to discuss this,” Connor says impatiently.
“Then discuss it hypothetically without using phrases like ‘when Emma dies,’” she interrupts. “Try ‘in the unlikely event’ or ‘if something were to happen.’ You know. Like normal people who aren’t actively trying to stress out a pregnant woman.”
She has a point, but we hash it out anyway because we need to. Custody arrangements if one or both of us dies. Godparents. Education. Which family traditions the baby will be raised with. Where they’ll go to school. Whether they’ll learn the family business from the Brennan side, the Santoro side, or both.