“That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t love anything more than I love you.” It probably makes me sound like an ass. But right now, I’d rip that kid from my wife’s body myself if I was forced to choose. Her or it. It will always be her.

“We’re going to be parents.” She smiles. “It should be an exciting time.”

“I don’t know how to be a parent. I didn’t exactly have a good example,” I mutter. “What if I fail?”

“You’re not going to fail. And you have me. You have our entire family. You’re already great with kids, Vin. You love your nephews. Don’t you think you’ll love this baby just as much?”

I nod. I know I will, but fear grips at my heart and won’t fucking let go.

“We will do this together, like everything. There isn’t anything we can’t do if we’re together.”

“What if I lose you? Do you know how many women die in childbirth?” I ask her. I looked it up. “Two-hundred and sixty thousand women die every year from the complications.”

“If that happens, and that is a big if, then you will have a piece of me in our son or daughter. You won’t lose me completely,” she says.

“Oh, fuck… It could be a girl?” I can’t raise a daughter. What the fuck do I know about girls, except that guys like me ruin them?

“Or a boy? Odds are 50/50, Vin.” Cammi laughs, placing her hand over her still very-flat stomach.

“Let’s hope for a boy. I don’t have enough guns for a girl,” I groan.

Cammi’s face screws up. “How about we just hope for a healthy baby?”

“And mum.” I lean in and press my lips against hers. “When are we going to tell the family?”

“Not yet. Let’s keep this ours for a little while. Besides, it’s still really early,” she says.

“Just ours,” I agree, and Cammi smiles.

“Vin… we’re going to be parents.”

I’m not going to lie. I have my doubts. I don’t want her body enduring any unnecessary strain, but I’m not an idiot. I know if I continue to press her about it, she’s going to think I don’t want kids. That I don’t want this baby. Which will make her sad. I can see how happy she is, even if we didn’t plan it.

“This baby is lucky to have you for a mother,” I tell my wife.

“Speaking of mothers, has Gio set up that meeting with yours yet?” she asks.

“Not yet, but she’s not my mother. She’s the woman who gave birth to me. There’s a difference,” I say. “Now, come on. Let’s go to bed.”

“Good idea, but you need to shower first. You smell like weed.”