Chapter 4 - OUR DAUGHTER ARRIVED WITHOUT ASKING PERMISSION
Labor lasted fourteen hours.
Roman learned quickly that money had no influence over a cervix.
It was educational.
At hour three, he asked whether the anesthesiologist could come sooner.
Lena, who had volunteered to handle my epidural if available, looked at him.
“She is not a pizza.”
Roman shut up.
At hour six, he tried to adjust my pillow.
I told him not to touch it.
He stopped.
At hour seven, I asked him to adjust it.
He did.
Progress apparently came in very boring forms.
We did not discuss Celeste.
Or divorce.
Or Domenic.
Labor had a way of editing priorities.
At one point I woke from a brief sleep and found Roman in the corner watching the fetal monitor.
His face was pale.
“What?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You look terrified.”
“I am.”
Good.
He gave a tired laugh.
Then:
“I’ve had guns pointed at me.”
“This is worse.”
“Why?”
“Because there is nothing I can threaten into behaving.”
I almost smiled.
“That sounds healthy.”
“Don’t enjoy this.”
“I’m in labor.”
“I’ll enjoy whatever I want.”
At 4:42 p.m. on January 7, our daughter was born.
Seven pounds, six ounces.
Dark hair.
Furious lungs.
The nurse placed her on my chest.
Everything inside me changed.
Not because I became only a mother.
That was exactly the kind of disappearance I was trying to escape.
But because this tiny person arrived without knowing any of our rules.
Roman stood beside the bed crying silently.
I had seen him bleed.
Fight.
Bury his father.
Stand calm while prosecutors raided an office.
I had never seen him cry like that.
“What’s her name?”
The nurse asked.
Roman looked at me.
We had chosen Isabella Rose months earlier.
I suddenly hated it.
Not the name.
The assumption that every decision made before Christmas still automatically applied.
Roman understood my hesitation.
“You choose.”
I stared.
“No.”
His face changed.
“We choose.”
Important.
We discussed it.
For ten minutes.
Like ordinary parents.
Finally:
Amelia Rose Vascari.
Amelia.
A name neither family owned.
The nurse wrote it down.
No argument.
No dynasty.
Just a baby.
Roman cut the cord.
Then stepped back.
Later, when visitors were limited, I allowed him to hold her.
He sat in the chair beside the window.
Amelia disappeared against his chest.
He looked terrified again.
“She’s tiny.”
“That happens with newborns.”
“I could break her.”
“You won’t.”
He looked at me.
“You still believe that?”
About our daughter?
Yes.
About me?
No answer.
Roman understood.
At 8:00 p.m., he handed Amelia back.
“I should go.”
I stared.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That stopped me.
He continued.
“But I don’t want you wondering whether asking me to leave will create a problem.”
So he left before I had to ask.
That mattered too.
Three days later, I discharged to Lena’s apartment.
Not the estate.
Roman did not object.
He sent a car seat to the hospital because the one in my vehicle remained at the estate.
I returned it.
Bought my own.
Petty?
Maybe.
Necessary?
Absolutely.
For six weeks, Roman visited Amelia on a schedule we agreed through Claire.
Not court-ordered.
Structure.
Tuesday evenings.
Saturday mornings.
No unannounced visits.
No security personnel inside.
He changed diapers.
Badly.
Learned bottles.
Held her while she screamed for forty minutes one Saturday.
Did not hand her back the moment things became unpleasant.
I watched from the kitchen.
Part of me loved him.
That was inconvenient.
Part of me hated him.
Also inconvenient.
The affair ended completely.
Celeste moved to New York in February for a new consulting role.
She sent me one letter.
I almost burned it.
Then read it.
Savannah,
There is no version of this letter where I am innocent. I knew he was married. I knew you were pregnant. I let myself believe his loneliness mattered more than your reality because that belief allowed me to keep what I wanted.
I am sorry.
I do not expect an answer.
Celeste
I kept that too.
Not because I forgave her.
Because accountability without excuses deserved recognition.
Domenic became the larger problem.
Roman’s closure of private lending cost him money.
Closing gambling rooms cost more.
Several older associates defected.
Domenic called Roman weak.
Publicly.
Then he made the mistake that ended his influence.
He approached me outside Dr. Shah’s office.
Not violently.
Smiling.
Gray coat.
Two men behind him.
“My niece.”
I stopped.
Independent security moved closer.
“I’m not your niece.”
“By marriage.”
“Not for long.”
His smile shifted.
“So that’s true.”
I had not filed for divorce yet.
He knew too much.
“Roman built everything around you.”
Domenic said.
“Now you leave because he embarrassed you.”
I stared.
“He cheated on me.”
“That’s marriage.”
“No.”
“That’s your generation’s excuse.”
His eyes hardened.
“Roman is dismantling his father’s work because a pregnant woman got emotional.”
I almost laughed.
Same word Roman used Christmas Eve.
Emotional.
Useful when a woman’s reaction was inconvenient.
“What do you want?”
“Go home.”
“No.”
“Tell him to stop.”
“No.”
“You think those men protecting you will stop family?”
“Yes.”
Simple.
He stepped closer.
They moved.
Then Domenic said quietly:
“Children need their father alive.”
Threat.
Clear enough.
The security guard recorded it.
I did not call Roman first.
I called police.
Then Claire.
Then Roman.
Order mattered.
Roman listened to the recording.
Silence.
“What are you going to do?”
I asked.
“Whatever the lawyers tell me.”
That answer almost made me cry.
Old Roman would have answered with a name.
A location.
A threat.
New Roman answered:
Lawyers.
Domenic was arrested later on charges tied not only to the threat but to an ongoing extortion investigation Roman’s legitimate-business restructuring had exposed.
Roman provided records.
Not as revenge.
Evidence.
Several criminal enterprises unraveled.
Roman was not suddenly innocent.
He entered negotiations through counsel concerning his own past involvement in unlicensed gambling and financial crimes.
He told me before anyone else.
“I may be charged.”
I held Amelia.
“How serious?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you asking me to protect you?”
“No.”
“Are you going to hide anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His mouth tightened.
“You say good at strange times.”
“So do surgeons.”
Wrong story? No surgeon here. I shook my head.
“Never mind.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“What are we doing, Savannah?”
Finally.
The question.
I looked at the man I married.
The man who betrayed me.
The father holding himself responsible in small, inconvenient ways.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
No argument.
May you like
That was our answer for a while.
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