Sofia

Nine months.

Well, seven and a half, really. That’s how long it took before Claire popped out, and that’s how long since you and I last spoke. Baby Claire: the girl I never knew I wanted; the girl I know, now, I could never live without. She’s everything to me: perfect; sweet; small. As far as I’m concerned, when she’s awake, there’s nothing else that matters; except Kieran, I guess. But he’s the same way. When Claire is in his arms, I barely get a smile. It’s hard to believe that you can feel all that love for just one person. But every day, I do. It feels like it’s growing: like it’s not my belly that’s swelling anymore; it’s my heart.

But anyway, I guess you want to know just how we got here. I’m not going to lie to you: it wasn’t easy. Being pregnant is hard enough at the best of times. Throwing a kid like Claire into the mix, now that’s another matter entirely.

Believe me, sometimes I felt like I had a demon child residing in my belly. It’s hard to imagine now that she’s been born. Now that she looks up at me with bleary, tiny eyes, and waves those tiny pink fingers; but it was all kinds of awful a few weeks ago. The doctors all told me that the morning sickness would stop. But what do they know.

Morning sickness; Ha! Morning my ass: morning, noon and night is more like it. Every meal, little Claire had me clutching my belly over the porcelain. The first trimester passed, and then the second and nothing changed. I guess most women don’t get hit so badly. Then again, I never did fit in with “most women.” For good, or bad, I was always different.

The only bonus, I guess, is that I’m not carrying too much baby weight. I kind of wish I was. I’ve been starving for nine months. And now she’s here, in my arms, this little bundle of joy – she barely gives me a moment’s peace. Not even a second for a burrito. Seriously: it’s all I want.

All that would be hard enough, right? Believe me, there was so much more to it. After Mickey died, that meant that I was head of the Family. And you know what? When you’re in the Mafia, you don’t get to take maternity leave.

Now, with Matteo by my side, that wasn’t the end of the world. They say old mobsters don’t die – they just fade away. I guess Lorenzi didn’t want to let that happen to him. He never struck me as the kind of guy who would agree with retirement, and I suppose I was right. Damn, he’s got the energy of a man half his age. Hell, most of them can’t keep up with him either.

First things first: we had to take care of the detective. If only Kieran had thought to bring a camera to the final standoff, we would have had dirt on him for good. I can’t blame him, though. Not when he allowed himself to get beaten black, blue and bloody to save my life. I know plenty of men whose pride wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Not Kieran: he jokes about it; pretends it’s not true; but he’s always thinking of the bigger picture, like me, us , our family.

Things don’t always work out perfectly, though. But I wasn’t going to let Detective Mackey get away with it. Hell, even thinking about him makes my body stiffen up, and my teeth grind like a chainsaw turning a hedge into wood chips. Adrenaline sparks through my body. It gets me mad.

But there are other ways of making a man suffer: especially an evil asshole like the detective. All he ever wanted was fame. Not money, just respect in his department, and in his city. He just wanted to always walk down the street, have people come up to him and shake his hand. But here’s the thing: in Boston, people love crooks, but they hate crooked cops.

I figured that if Detective Mackey was hip deep in a crime, like my kidnapping, then that probably wasn’t the only thing in which he was involved. Turns out he was looking the other way on a drug smuggling ring run by the Templars. He didn’t take a penny, he just wanted information from them, so he could take out other gangs and claim the credit. They say not all heroes wear capes. Well apparently some heroes don’t catch crooks, either.

A kid died from cut drugs.

Cut drugs sold by the Templars; drugs cut with rat poison, or something like that. It makes me sick. There’s one thing the Family has never got itself involved in, and that’s the drug trade. It’s a sick, evil crime that costs lives and ruins communities. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned from Kieran Byrne, it’s that community is what’s most important. If you look after your people, they’ll look after you.

I guess my dad forgot that piece of wisdom, somewhere along the way. Mickey never knew it. I’m determined to remember it. Without our people, the Family is nothing. And because all that remains are me, a few cousins, and baby Claire…

Yeah. Our people are important.

Anyway, back to Detective Mackey. Well, just Mr. Mackey, now. I told you he never took a red cent from those Mexicans. It made it harder to pin the crime on him. Well, at the beginning, it did. I had Matteo withdraw twenty grand in untraceable bills from a friendly bank, and then smuggle them into the detective’s trunk. I had him follow the good detective to one of his meetings with the Templars. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, when that picture gets slapped on the first page of the Herald, and someone calls in a tip about money in the detective’s car…

You get the, uh, picture. The DA refused to prosecute. Too afraid of the police union, I guess. But I’m not worried about that. You see, I took away from Mackey the only thing he ever wanted – respect. He’s in prison now, whether he’s behind bars or not. It’s a better kind of revenge. One I savor every day.

Kieran and I aren’t married, not yet. I didn’t want to have to grease myself up to slip into my wedding dress. If that makes me a bad Catholic, then so be it. I guess I am. But it will happen, soon enough. Believe me; I’m counting down the days.

Oh, and did you hear about Ridley? I heard he found himself a woman. But I guess that’s a story for another day.

* * *

My breathing is slow, calm, and steady. I feel like I’ve been through fifteen rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson over the past few days. Hell, over the past few months. Anyone that’s ever said being a mom is easy doesn’t know how wrong they are. Raising a kid is hard enough, but giving birth to one?

It’s like climbing Everest without gloves.

Little Claire rests on my chest. My eyelids flicker shut once, twice, a third time. It looks like I’m looking out through a field of wheat waving gently in the breeze. I struggle to keep them open, but it’s hard. I’m still in the hospital, and there isn’t much to catch my attention. It’s a private room, but that doesn’t help. It just means there’s no one on the ward to chat to.

“You okay, baby?” I croon to the little girl sleeping on me. Claire was inside me, sleeping, for nine months and yet the first thing she does after being born? Take a nap… I don’t know why, but I can’t stop the corners of my lips jerking upward. I find it funny, and I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just sleep deprived.

Hell, I know I’m sleep deprived!

Claire is so light – five pounds, six ounces, but who’s counting – that it’s hard to believe she’s real. I feel like if I was to stop clutching her, even for a second, she might fly away, caught on a non-existent breeze. I look down at her with half-lidded eyes. I could just fall asleep; here, now. I could sleep forever and I would be happy just to have held her once.

My head tips backwards. I’m just so exhausted. I rest like that for a few seconds: maybe longer; a few minutes? It’s hard to tell. A clock on the far wall ticks, ticks, ticks, until it’s a rhythm in my head, like a heartbeat. I slump back; I imagine that I’m Claire, and on my stomach: everything’s beating; thump, thump, thump.

I need a nap.

The door clicks open. It’s so quiet that I almost miss it. I haven’t the energy even to look up. It’s probably just a nurse, come to take more blood, or check my pulse, or something.

I feel a familiar warmth nearby. I let myself smile. I know exactly who it is. It’s Kieran. I don’t know how, but I can sense him now. It feels like he’s a part of me, as much as I am a part of him. How can I explain it? It’s like knowing that your leg is your leg. Maybe it’s the way Kieran smells, the way he breathes, the way he walks – maybe it’s all of it.

Or maybe it’s the way I just feel safe the second I know he’s around.

I feel a momentary brush of fingers on my chest, then a coolness as Kieran lifts Claire’s sleeping, tiny body off me. He’s the only person I would allow to do that without a complaint: without a loud complaint. Instead, I just lie back, just pretending to be asleep, watching out of mostly-closed eyes.

“Hey, sweetie,” Kieran whispers, as he holds Claire close to his body. Her red hair – God only knows where that came from – is a bright red shock against Kieran’s white shirt. It reminds me of a fox dancing through a snowy field in midwinter – prancing around, light and lithe and happy on its paws.

“You’re just as beautiful as your ma, you know that?” Kieran continues, still in a half whisper that carries throughout the room. A little sparkle of happiness dances across my skin. I know what you’re thinking – it’s just the feeling of the coarse hospital bed sheets dragging against my aching skin, my bruised nipples – but you’d be wrong. It’s real. For the first time, in as long as I can remember, I’m truly happy.

“I’d say you were more beautiful, but I know she’s listening,” Kieran whispers.

My eyes spring open. The thick field of wheat clears from my side, and I see Kieran dressed in his Sunday best, and in full color. Suddenly I’ve got energy again – outraged energy, but energy nonetheless.

“How did you know?” I whisper, low enough that I won’t wake Claire, hard enough to let Kieran know I’m demanding an answer.

“Know what?” Kieran grins, bouncing Claire up and down gently on the shoulder. “That ye were awake? That ye were listening to me?”

I grind my jaw shut. I was eavesdropping, so what? “Yes,” I growl. “Exactly that: she’s beautiful, but I’m…”

Kieran leans forward, pressing his lips against mine, and Claire against his chest. The second he touches me, I can feel how gently he’s cradling our baby.

“A hot, sweaty, grumpy mess,” Kieran grins, dragging his lips against my cheek and nibbling my ear. “Just the way I like ye…”

I narrow my eyes and stare at the man I love. The man I love even when he’s messing with me … Even when he’s teasing me. He never stops. Not even after seventeen hours of labor!

“You better watch your mouth, Kieran Byrne,” I grunt. And then I stop, midsentence. My nostrils jump and jerk, and I look around. “What’s that –?” I ask.

“That smell?” Kieran smiles. “Just call me Mr. Perfect.” He jerks his head at a huge bunch of lavender that he’s placed in a vase on the other side of the room. It smells calming, relaxing; it’s everything I need. It’s cutting across that harsh, antiseptic, acerbic hospital smell that I normally can’t escape. It’s making me tired, calling me to fall asleep.

My eyes well up with tears. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I’m not normally like this. Kieran never said a word when he heard me moaning about the smell. He hasn’t slept in the last couple of days, not a wink more than I have. And yet he’s gone home, got cleaned up, and brought lavender back with him. It’s a little thing, but I can’t tell you how much it means to me.

Kieran comes to sit by my bed. He drags the fingers of his free hand through my hair, and I close my eyes again, relaxing into the feeling. “Ye just go to sleep now. We’ll be here when ye wake up…”

I try to keep my eyes open; try as hard as I can. But no matter what, my eyelashes brush against each other, falling, as if they are weighed down by anchors. The smell of lavender on the air, of Kieran and Claire; it smells like home.

I whisper something, before drifting off. I think I do, anyway. Maybe it’s just in my dream that I do. “I love you, Kieran Byrne…”