Part 2: The Mafia Boss Came to End His Marriage, but the Midwife Said She Was Only Twenty-Nine Weeks Pregnant

The room shrank until there was nothing left in the world except the harsh sound of Kate’s breathing and the iron grip of her fingers digging into Lucian’s forearm.

He didn’t flinch. He leaned his chest against her trembling back, wrapping his arms around her torso to anchor her upright against the mountain of pillows. He was a man accustomed to violence, to boardrooms where billions shifted hands with a nod, to back-alley standoffs where a single heartbeat determined who lived and who died. Yet feeling the fragile, shuddering core of his wife beneath his hands terrified him more than an assassin’s gun.

“Breathe with me, Kate,” Lucian murmured near her ear, his voice dropping into that low, resonant baritone that had once commanded her entire world. “In through your nose. Slow. Come on, sweetheart.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed, sweat plastering dark curls to her temples. “He’s too small, Lucian... twenty-nine weeks. His lungs aren’t ready. He wasn't supposed to come now.”

“Look at me,” Miriam commanded from the foot of the bed, her gloves snapping into place. The elderly midwife had discarded all gentleness, replacing it with the hardened efficiency of a field surgeon. “Panicking robs him of oxygen, Katherine. Push when the wave peaks. Not against it—with it.”

Another contraction seized Kate. She arched back, her head pressing hard into Lucian’s chest. A choked scream tore from her throat. Lucian tightened his hold, absorbing her weight, whispering broken promises into her hair.

“I’ve got you,” he swore, his voice raw. “Kate, I’m right here. I’m not letting go.”

“Head is crowning,” Miriam said, her tone sharp and urgent. “Small, very small. One more steady push, Kate. Give me everything you have left.”

Kate squeezed her eyes shut. Lucian felt the desperate, agonizing surge of her strength as she poured the last remnants of her life into bringing their son into the world. Her fingers clawed into his skin, drawing blood, but he only pressed his lips against her damp temple, chanting her name like a prayer.

With a final, ragged cry, the pressure broke.

Silence descended on the room. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Lucian’s eyes snapped toward the foot of the bed. Miriam held a tiny, purple-tinged infant in a sterile towel. The baby was impossibly small—barely larger than two cupped hands—and completely limp.

No cry came.

“Why isn't he crying?” Kate whispered, her voice failing. She tried to pull herself forward, but exhaustion dragged her back into Lucian’s arms. “Miriam? Why isn't he crying? Lucian, make him cry!”

Miriam was already moving. She placed the baby on a heated blanket on the side table, bulb-suctioning his airway with rapid, practiced movements, rubbing his tiny chest with two fingers. “Clear the airway. Stimulating.”

Seconds stretched into eternity. Lucian felt his heart hammer violently against his ribs. He looked at the tiny form of his son—his flesh and blood, born of a woman he had driven away with his coldness and paranoia.

“Come on, boy,” Lucian growled under his breath, his eyes burning with an emotion he had buried for a decade. “Fight. You’re an Avery. Fight.”

A faint, reedy cough broke the room’s stillness.

Then came another. And finally, a thin, mewling wail, fragile as spun glass, but unmistakably alive.

Tears spilled over Kate’s pale cheeks as she collapsed backward into Lucian. “He’s breathing. Oh God, he’s breathing.”

Miriam didn't smile; her jaw remained clenched. “He’s breathing, but he’s in respiratory distress. We need oxygen and an incubator immediately. Where the hell is that ambulance?”