I look down at the tattoo, applying another detail.
Luca sits calmly, but every now and then, he pretends to wince, making Emily laugh like crazy. It makes me giggle, too, all of us caught up in the joke.
Emily starts to sing along to the radio, her voice shifting, lilting up and down.
“That’s amazing,” Luca says. “You could be a real singer, Emily.”
“Really, Daddy?”
“Definitely,” he says. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Mommy?” Emily says. “Do you really think I could be a singer?”
“Hmm,” I say, brushing down the tattoo. “I don’t know. Let me hear a couple more lines.”
Emily puts her all into it, holding an imaginary microphone and tilting her head from side to side as if summoning up the notes.
I cheer and whistle, smiling over at her.
She beams back at me. I recognize her face, sometimes, when her cheeks get flushed and the nervousness creeps into her eyes. It’s like me, except Emily will never have to worry about the stuff that happened to me.
We’re going to protect her, all our children, always.
Leaning forward, I study the tattoo, almost completed.
It shows all of us, a new addition coming with every new child. It shows me and it shows Emily. It shows Luca and Jamie and, now, it shows Angela.
I brush down the lettering and then nod, standing up.
“You’re done. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly, husband.”
He tosses me a wink as he stands, grinning with that intoxicatingly tempting cheekiness. “You didn’t win all those awards by making mistakes.”
My heart whelms, and everything gets brighter, more significant, sweeter.
I love how he’s always supported me, how he encouraged me in my tattooing career, and how he taught me. I remember the long sessions, his huge hand covering mine, showing me the best technique.
And now I have a successful career, alongside Luca’s businesses, all of them legitimate now.
Conor is in prison, and the Irish mob is a shell of its former self.
We’re moving up in the world, but most importantly, we’re protecting and loving our family.
We’re protecting and loving each other, always.
“What do you think, honey?”
I scoop Emily into my arms and walk over to Luca.
“Um, let me see,” she says, tapping her finger against her chin. “I think it’s amaziiiiiing.”
She sings the last word, making us all laugh, and then she throws her arms around me and gives me a kiss.
“Thanks for letting me see, Mommy.”
I hug her in return, laying my cheek against hers, savoring the simple wonderful impossible fact that this little girl came from us. We made her.
We made this life, this future, this heaven.
ELEVEN YEARS LATER
Luca
“You’re doing well, son.”
Jamie grits his teeth as he looks over at me, putting his all into the next jab. The junior heavy bag swings at his strikes, making whining noises. He’s turning into a crazed little beast, the same way I was when I was a kid, then a young man.
The bell goes off, and Jamie hits it one more time, grinning.
He’s got my black hair…the black it was before experience turned it gray. He’s broad too, with wide shoulders, and perceptive and alert eyes.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says.
“Just remember your hands. It’s the most basic thing. Sometimes it will seem annoying but always bring them back to your face. Always protect yourself.”
Jamie nods, looking at me with so much grit and determination I could roar.
We turn when we hear someone approach.
Its Lena, Emily standing at her side, or more accurately over her. Our daughter has grown massively since hitting her teenage years, standing a head above her mother but still with her kind smile and her bright eyes.
And with her amazing singing voice. She won a talent show last month and the whole family was cheering.
“Dinner soon, boys,” Lena says.
My gaze snaps to her outfit. Its evening, work forgotten, and she’s wearing a casual dress with her apron over her front. Her hair is messy and spills down to her shoulders, making me want to run my hands through it.
She always looks so maternal, so sexy, and so loving at the same time.
“Mommy, I did good. Didn’t I, Dad?”
One of Jamie’s quirks is calling Lena Mommy while calling me just Dad. It’s like the little soldier thinks he needs to be tougher with me, more capable, and he lives up to that challenge. He’s an incredible kid.
I love him so much, all my children so much, sometimes it’s difficult to even process the emotion.
“Amazing, son,” I say seriously.
“Go and help your sister set the table,” Lena says, smiling at Jamie.
“Yeah, come on, you little punching machine,” Emily says.
“Hey, I’m not little.”
Lena walks into the room. Behind her, the gym door frames the garden, the long lawn leading to the house.
It’s the house where this all started, the safe house we made our home, but we’ve extended it several times over the years.