She slams a hand against the table. “Fuck your supplies. I keep on telling you, the only reason I’m here is because of my sister!”
I can’t tell her the truth. That the case file on her sister reads more like an indictment of Cami than her father.
I think of one excerpt from the interview with her dad: Camille is a very bitter and disturbed girl. She threatened to do something like this if I didn’t give her money…
Carlos Marino’s condemnations of his estranged daughter’s motivations took up more space on the report than the short interview the social worker did with her half-sister, Talia.
But I believe Cami. I believe her story, even if that other social worker doesn’t. And that just makes it worse as my purposefully neutral gaze connects with her angry one.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her truthfully. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could do more.”
Compassion can be a soul breaker for some of these kids. And Cami starts sobbing on the other side of the table. I heave myself out of my seat and go to her. Wrap my arms around her and try to take on some of the pain radiating off of her in waves.
Not surprisingly, I feel tired, bordering on weary, when I get out of my Lyft that night. I’d been thinking of making myself dinner and taking a long hot shower when I first left work. But over the course of my Lyft ride, that plan has morphed into a microwave Amy’s Dinner and falling face down into my bed without so much as brushing my teeth or washing my face.
I bemoan the alcohol-free state of my apartment, as I climb the stairs to my one-bedroom. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, huge glass of—
I stop, my tiredness slipping away when I see the hulking figure standing outside my door.
Every nerve ending surges to life with such speed my head spins. I’m fully awake now, just like I was when I walked into my kitchen on that fateful day last year.
Because Stone is here. Standing in front of my apartment door. His eyes glued to my belly.
Which is about eight months pregnant with his brother’s baby.
Chapter Three
“Stone,” I say, out of breath even though I’m standing still. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes flick from my belly to my face. Back down to my belly. Then… “Is it Rock’s?”
Panic lodges in my throat, like a piece of meat, threatening to choke me to death. I’ve gone through a lot to keep this secret. Abandoned my post, moved across state lines and ghosted my best friend. All so I could cut my baby’s ties to the mafia family its father was trying to escape.
It feels wildly unfair to get caught now in my very deliberate sin of omission. Not earlier on in the pregnancy, but at the tail end of my third trimester, when I barely have enough energy to get up the stairs to my apartment, much less fight.
Lie, the new much bitchier Naima I’m trying to be urges. A lie will solve everything.
I open my mouth, ready to say whatever it takes to make this cold-eyed killer go away.
But then he says, “And if you’re thinking about telling me anything less than the God’s honest, remember what happened when Amber lied to Luca about the exact same thing.”
Not the exact same thing. This baby isn’t Stone’s, it’s his brother’s. His dead brother’s, which means Stone has absolutely no rights here. But the Ferraro Family’s number one enforcer remains disturbingly effective at the art of intimidation. Despite my silent counter argument, I do exactly as he says. I remember what happened when Amber lied to Luca.
Stone at my kitchen table—that’s what happened when Amber lied to Luca about who was the father of her baby. Also, this isn’t Luca standing between me and my front door right now. Stone is the guy, bad guys like Luca call in for jobs too dirty for them to handle.
Oh God… A sharp pain zips across my pelvis at the thought of what Stone will do if he catches me in a lie, and my over-burdened bladder threatens to release.
“I’ve got to use the bathroom. Like, right now.”
I try to push past him, but he shifts to stand in front of me. “Is it Rock’s?” he asks again, without an ounce of sympathy in his expression.
“It doesn’t matter either way,” I answer.
“The fuck it doesn’t matter,” Stone answers, his voice vicious and lethal.
I visibly squirm, bouncing from foot to foot. “I really, really have to pee. So unless you want me to have an accident…”
A beat. Then he takes a very deliberate step aside.
Unlocking the door feels like it takes a century with Stone’s cold gaze, lasering into me. But finally, I manage to get it open. And though, I wasn’t lying about my need to pee, with a burst of speed, I didn’t know I was still capable of at this late stage of pregnancy, I dart inside, making a quick decision to slam the door between me and the enforcer who showed up out of the blue.
Then I put myself at further risk of peeing my pants in order to flip both locks and pull the chain before I make a mad dash to the bathroom.
Relief floods through me when my bottom finally hits the toilet seat. But I know it’s only temporary. I’ve escaped the ruthless enforcer. I’m safe…for now. But I already know…
Eventually I’m going to have to deal with Stone.
That eventually hits me hard, and suddenly I can’t breathe for the elephant of dread sitting on my chest. I’ve been found out by the Ferraro family’s most ruthless enforcer. And I have no idea how I’m going to get myself or my innocent baby out of this mess?
Chapter Four
Eventually comes much sooner than expected.
The very next morning I walk into the kitchen to find Stone at the table, just like back in New York. Same sharp dark suit, same shaven head, same Stone-y expression.
But this time there’s no gun, sitting in front of him. No, the thing laid out on the kitchen table is even worse. A single sheet form with three horrific words written across the top.
“Is that…?” I start to ask, only to have the rest of the question die in my throat.
Appearing to give zero eff-words about my stricken look, Stone supplies, “Yeah, it’s a marriage license. You and me are getting married. Today.”
I blink at him, once again not sure if he’s for real or a terrible nightmare. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Don’t act like this is a surprise.”
“I’m not acting,” I assure him, holding up both hands. “I am truly very surprised. Just like any woman would be if she walked into her kitchen to find the brother of her baby’s dead father waiting—with a marriage license application already printed out.”
Stone shrugs as if I’m the ridiculous one in this situation, not him. “What’d you think was going to happen after I saw the state of you?”
“I didn’t think you’d ever see,” I answer truthfully.
Stone narrows his eyes at me. “So you thought, what? You’d just keep this from me forever? Like Amber tried to do Luca?”
“No, not like Amber and Luca,” I answer. Then I remind him. “You’re not this baby’s father.”
“Yeah, and that’s why we’ve got to get married,” he says, tapping on the documents with one thick finger. “The lawyer I consulted is saying I can’t adopt this kid until it’s out. But being married to its mother will speed things along. What are you, like, nine months already? If we do this right, I could be in place before the ink on the birth certificate dries.”
As my mother often says when my father is getting on her last nerve, “Ayayay….” I rub a hand over my face and turn to the Keurig. “I need coffee. Real coffee.”
I can tell Stone has plans to be difficult with a generous splash of scary to get what he wants.
“And then we’ll go down to the courthouse.”
I scowl at him over my shoulder as I fill the reservoir with water. “And then, I call the police, because you’re not supposed to be in my house.”
“This isn’t a house. It’s an apartment,” Stone sneers, looking around my home like he found me l
iving in some kind of hovel, not in a reasonably priced two-bedroom. “And it’s way too small to raise a kid in anyways.”
I bristle with irritation but I keep my voice carefully composed as I say, “I grew up in a duplex. This is fine. More than adequate.”
“I want my kid to grow up in a house,” Stone answers behind me, his voice stubborn.
“Cool. By all means, do that when you have a kid,” I say, punching a finger into the brew button. “But since this isn’t your baby…”
“You should’ve told me,” Stone mutters. “Given me more time to prepare.”
Funny I thought, I’d started to lose my accent after so many months in a southern state where many of my clients called me ma’am. But it comes back in full effect as I ask, “Prepare for what? Just in case me moving hundreds of miles away hasn’t already clued you in, I don’t want you or any other Ferraro in this baby’s life!”
“Any other Ferraro, including Amber, right?” he asks, standing up from the table.
Especially not Amber, I think to myself, before answering, “No, not Amber either.”
With a sigh, I turn around to face him. “I don’t need Amber or anyone else to raise my child in North Carolina without all your crime family drama.”
Stone pauses in a way I hope means, he’s truly considering my words, and/or realizing I’m not going to go along with his crazy marriage plan.
However, I find out in the next moment it totally doesn’t.
“If this is about that lesbo crush you had on Amber, you’re going to have to let that shit go. It ain’t happening, especially now that she’s in two kids deep with Luca. Those two fuck non-stop, you know. It ain’t even natural. No way she’s leaving him for you.”
My coffee’s beeping at me to get it, but for several moments on end, all I can do is stare at Stone. So grossly offended, my mind short-circuits trying to figure out how to answer his offensive accusation.
I finally settle on a fierce. “Get out!”
Stone starts walking. But not toward the door. I watch open-mouthed as he strolls over to my Keurig, pulls out my NY SOCIAL WORK department mug, and oh, my God…actually takes a sip of the coffee I just brewed for myself.
He pulls a face. “Whoa, this is strong.” Then, without warning, he dumps the entire mug in the sink. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be drinking real coffee anyways.”
Okay, being a social worker is all about keeping your composure, no matter what. Which I always do. I’ve lost count of how many heartfelt thank yous and apologies I’ve received, commending me for my patience, no matter what my angry and frustrated clients threw at me. And I’ve been even better here in North Carolina, where people’s voices sound like warm honey instead of cracked concrete.
But Stone…freaking Stone.
“Get out!” I find myself screaming at him. “Get out before I call the police—”
I cut off. Not because I’ve gotten a hold of myself, but because of the cramp that suddenly seizes across my mid-section, cutting and bright.
“Ow!” I say, doubling over.
“Fuck, what’s going on with you?” Stone demands, glaring at me, like I just decided to be in pain on purpose.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to undouble, despite the lingering ache of the cramp. “Or at least I will be when you go. So, please, get—ooooowwww.”
I double over again.
“All right, fuck this shit…” The next thing I know, the guy I was just yelling at to get out of my apartment picks me up and cradles me to his chest, like I weigh nothing at all.
“We’re going to the hospital,” he declares before carrying me out of my own front door.
Chapter Five
Stone is totally wrong. I tell him that over and over again after he deposits me into his large black SUV, then proceeds to race toward the closest hospital like he’s a cop with a license to run stop signs and lights wherever he sees fit.
“It’s probably just Braxton Hicks,” I insist. “I feel fine, and the baby’s not due for another three weeks.”
“You’re an idiot,” he answers. Then he ignores me until he screeches to a halt in front of the ER.
I’m pretty sure Stone was never in the army, but he sounds like some kind of drill sergeant, issuing orders from the moment he hauls me out of the huge black car’s backseat.
“Get a birthing suite ready. She’s about to pop!” he yells to the woman working at the front desk.
“Please stop yelling, and I’m not about to pop,” I throw an apologetic look at the woman behind the glass window. “I feel fine now.”
But then as if punishing me for daring to disagree with the world’s biggest butthole, another cramp doubles me over.
“Her contractions are about ten minutes apart. Birthing Suite. Now.” Stone commands. “Whatever you’d set aside for the biggest sports star, I want her in it.”
These people don’t know Stone from Adam, but somehow, they end up doing exactly as commanded. Less than fifteen minutes after we arrive, I find myself in a birthing suite that looks like a really nice apartment, not the sterile labor and delivery rooms I saw on the tour with my single mother’s Lamaze class.
And less than fifteen minutes after that, the head nurse of the maternity ward declares that I’m in the early stages of labor and sends another nurse off to page my obstetrician.
I can’t even bring myself to look Stone in the eye after the announcement. Stone, who’s still freaking here, standing right by my bedside. Somewhere along the way, he’d assured, or more likely scared the staff into believing he was my husband and should be allowed to stay.
“You sure this is the best you’ve got?” he asks, glancing around the room, like it’s not twice as big as a Manhattan studio apartment.
The head nurse informs him that the babies of five football stars, eleven basketball players, and one major country music singer have all been born in this very room. “Believe me, your wife is in the best of hands,” she tells Stone.
“I’m not his—” I start to say.
Only to be cut off by Stone’s terse “She better be.”
The nurse finds an excuse to leave the room shortly after that.
I open my mouth to tell him he can go, too, but cut off when another cramp tears through me.
“Hurts like a motherfucker, huh?” To my surprise, Stone enfolds my hand in his much larger one. “Just breathe, and it’ll be over soon.”
Suddenly, remembering all the Lamaze lessons that flew out of my earlier, I breathe, holding on tight to his hand. And just like Stone promised, the pain soon begins to ebb.
For a moment, I feel grateful. Stone’s here, and I know I’m safe with him. A warm sense of security rolls over me, and suddenly I’m glad he’s here and I am not alone…
….which is totally crazy! Ugh, hormones. Get it together, Almonte, I chide myself. The last thing I should feel with a man as ruthless and uncompromising as Stone is safe.
“Where’s my phone?” I ask him. “I need to call my Aunt Mari.
Stone drops my hand like it’s a dead subway rat. “Left it in the car,” he answers.
“Could you go get it?” I ask between clenched teeth. “She’s the one who’s supposed to be here with me, not you.”
“Well, I ain’t leaving your side,” he answers. With that, he walks over to the birthing suite’s couch and takes a seat. Like the conversation is over and decided. He even pulls a pair of readers out of his jacket pocket and opens the Architectural Digest, sitting on the coffee table, really settling in.
I’m thoroughly outraged…and a tiny bit thrilled.
Which is so, so wrong, I remind myself.
“You know, I could ask the nurses to kick you out,” I threaten, now totally anxious to swap out the ruthless enforcer with my at least sort of biddable aunt.
“Yeah, you do that.” Stone flips a page of his magazine. “Good luck paying for this room on a social worker’s salary.”
I never curse. It’s not ki
nd, and it’s not necessary. But I come close to calling this bully a slew of names as I answer, “You’re the one who made them put me in this room!”
“Yeah, and you’re welcome. Now give me some peace and quiet, while I look at what’s popping in Sedona.”
Ayayay! I’ve never met somebody so infuriating in my life. But another contraction interrupts whatever reply I could have come up with.
For the next few hours I writhe around on the bed in intermittent pain, while he flips through magazines, like whatever’s in there is way more interesting than what’s happening with me as the contractions get longer and closer together. At least I think he’s ignoring what’s happening with me.
Even though he’s several feet away and reading, he somehow senses when I get past my threshold level for pain.
“Time for the epidural,” he tells the nurse, just as I’m deciding to abandon my all-natural birth plan after a particularly agonizing contraction. “Get the drug guy in here for her.”
There’s some relief after the anesthesiologist pays me a visit with his needle kit. Then there’s some more grumbling from me about how Stone needs to give me my purse and go, because my Aunt Mari will be here as soon as I let her know I’m in labor. However, this one-sided exchange is directly followed by a whole lot more not going anywhere from Stone.
Soon after that, the obstetrician appears and announces it’s time to push.
“If you want to hold your wife’s hand, give her some words of encouragement, now would be a good time,” the head nurse tells Stone. Probably surprised by his lack of reaction to his supposed baby’s big debut.
I shake my head at the nurse. “He’s not my…”
I trail off when instead of continuing to flip through his magazine, Stone rises from the couch like a statue suddenly come to life and crosses the room.
The next thing I know, his much larger hand closes around mine again. “C’mon,” he grunts.
C’mon. Not exactly the words of encouragement the nurse was hinting at. I toy with the idea of telling the nurses to kick him out. I was the mother after all, and what I said went.
STONE: Her Ruthless Enforcer: 50 Loving States, North Carolina Page 3
