Chapter 149

Chapter 149
Gabriel's POV

Two months and thirteen days since Marcus died in that abandoned church.

I remember clearly, because every morning when Isabella wakes, she crosses off another day on the bedside calendar. She says it reminds her "the threat really is over," but I know it's more like a ritual—the most direct way to confirm safety, to confirm our daughter can grow in an environment without fear.

The Donovan family's remnants have long been completely eradicated. Those gazes that once watched from the shadows have all disappeared. I thought I could finally breathe easier, but discovered fear had simply returned in a different form—no longer bullets and explosions, but the unknowns of the delivery room, the risks of childbirth, dangers I can't solve with force.

Right now, I'm standing before the map in my study, checking the route from the manor to the hospital for the seventeenth time.

My finger moves slowly along the main roads, every intersection's sniper point, every alley's hazard, every building's suspicious resident—all deeply burned into my mind. This route of less than ten kilometers, I spent a month repeatedly checking, even the residents along the way were investigated thoroughly by Quincy's people. These past two weeks, this section has even been under traffic control, any unfamiliar vehicle gets stopped and questioned.

"You've redrawn this route six times in the last forty-eight hours." Quincy's voice comes from the doorway, carrying its usual rasp. He'd only been able to get out of bed two weeks ago, injuries from the church collapse kept him bedridden for over two months, his movements still carrying some caution. "The sniper points haven't changed. Neither have the blast radiuses."

"Check it again." I don't look up, finger still hovering over the southern route. "When does Fifth Street's construction end?"

"Two days ago. Our people checked every beam and pipe, it's clean." Quincy approaches, his reflection appearing in the window. "Boss, this past month you've put every household within three blocks of every route under surveillance. You've installed emergency buttons in the car, backup car, and decoy car, and personally vetted every nurse who might come within ten feet of Mrs. Sullivan."

"It's not enough." I grip the desk edge, knuckles white. "There are still variables. Traffic changes, water mains might burst, some road-rage driver..."

"What else? Break through the armored convoy? Break through the security team? Break through helicopter surveillance? Boss, you've prepared for everything except an alien invasion."

I finally turn around, facing him, seeing the concern hidden beneath his usual composure. "You don't understand." My hand unconsciously presses against my chest, where there's a pressure like something physical when Isabella isn't nearby. "Every night I lie beside her, feeling our daughter move under my palm, and all I can think about are the thousand ways I might lose them. One mistake, one oversight..."

"One breath you need to take before you collapse." Quincy interrupts me, tone gentle. "When's the last time you slept more than three hours?"

I can't remember. The past week has been like an endless loop—route analysis, security briefings, midnight patrols of the manor, checking defenses that don't need checking. Sometimes Isabella wakes to find me gone, and when I return she looks at me with understanding mixed with worry.

"She's noticed." Quincy sees through my expression. "Yesterday she asked if you were planning to deliver the baby yourself because you don't trust the doctors."

I can't help but laugh, bitterness mixed with helplessness. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're terrified." His honesty hits like a punch. "That it's okay. That it's human."

He pauses. "You were fighting enemies who knew your patterns, had resources and motivation to find weaknesses. But now? Marcus is dead. The Donovan family is destroyed." He gestures at the map. "This isn't war. This is bringing your daughter into the world. The only enemy is your own fear."

I stare at all those dense markings on the map, every red line and circle representing variables I'm trying to control. But Quincy's right—I'm fighting ghosts, fighting the "what ifs" in my own head.

My phone vibrates, breaking the silence. Isabella's text: Come back to bed. Your daughter's awake and looking for her daddy.

The walk back to the bedroom feels longer than usual, my thoughts still spinning through contingency plans, though I'm trying to follow Quincy's advice. When I find Isabella, she's propped against pillows I'd carefully arranged myself—each precisely adjusted to support her back and relieve leg pressure.

Nine months pregnant, she's become round and radiant, though she constantly complains about swollen ankles and not being able to see her feet. But to me, she's never been more beautiful, and never made me more afraid of loss.

"You're doing it again." She says without opening her eyes, one hand resting on her swollen belly. "Standing in the doorway staring at me like I might disappear."

"Can you blame me?" I move to the bed, sitting carefully beside her. The mattress dips slightly, my hand instinctively covering hers on her stomach, fingertips touching her warmth. "You're carrying the most precious thing in my world."

Isabella turns her head, a smile with helplessness playing at her lips. "But lately you're always distracted, like your mind is still spinning through maps and routes. If you didn't remember to come back and stay with me, I'd almost suspect you might leave me out of your plans."

I can't help but smile, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, breathing in the vanilla scent of her shampoo, reassuring. "How could that be possible? You're the reason I'm doing all this. Both of you are the center of all my plans."

As if on cue, a strong kick lands under our joined hands. Isabella winces slightly, my heart skips a beat, instinctively tensing. "Is that normal? The force—is it too much—should I call Dr. Petrova?"

"Gabriel." Isabella's other hand cups my cheek, forcing me to look at her. "It's normal. She's been doing this all week. Our daughter is just... active."

"Like her mother." I murmur, remembering Isabella's transformation from gentle bookshop owner to a woman who could kill in self-defense. "Stubborn, fierce."

"Like her father." Isabella counters, thumb stroking my cheekbone where shadows have formed from lack of sleep. "Protective to the point of insanity. Speaking of which, Quincy told me you've checked the hospital route seventeen times."

"Seventeenth." I admit. "But I'm not crazy, I'm just making sure there are no problems."

"You're terrified. Every time you touch me, every time you look at me, I can feel it. You're afraid something will go wrong."

I can't deny it, can only press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes. "I've faced armed militias, orchestrated the downfall of criminal empires, killed without hesitation. But thinking about you in pain, about complications during delivery, about—" My voice breaks. "I can't lose you, Isabella."

"Hey." Her hands frame my face, thumbs wiping away moisture I hadn't realized was there.

"Look at me." When I do, her brown eyes are steady, certain. "I'm not going anywhere. We're not going anywhere. You've made sure of that with your planning, your security army, your color-coded routes. But Gabriel, at some point, you have to trust that we'll be okay."

"I'm trying." I whisper, voice hoarse. "God, Isabella, I'm trying. But every time I close my eyes, I see—"

Another stronger kick interrupts me, this one clearly more forceful than before. Isabella gasps, hand flying to her side. "Oh, that one really had power. She's definitely awake now."

I immediately move, hand following hers to where our daughter is apparently practicing boxing. Under my palm, I feel that rhythm of life—strong, insistent, full of vitality. "Does it hurt? I mean, that force—"

"Not exactly hurt, more like... insistence." Isabella smiles despite the discomfort. "I think she's telling you to calm down, your stress might be keeping her up."

"Sorry, little one." I murmur, leaning down to kiss Isabella's belly, lips pressing against the thin fabric of her sleep shirt. "Your dad's a mess when it comes to the people he loves."

"She'll have to get used to it." Isabella says, gently stroking my hair. "We both will. This is who you are, Gabriel—a man who loves so intensely it scares him. But that love is what keeps us safe, what built the life we're bringing her into."