Chapter 151

Chapter 151
Gabriel's POV

Ten minutes later, the hospital appears ahead, its white facade stark against the afternoon sky. The medical team has been waiting at the emergency entrance, obstetrics chief Dr. Petrova personally pushing out a gurney. I place Isabella on it, her hand still clutching my sleeve like grasping a last lifeline.

"Gabriel..." She looks at me, eyes holding pain, tension, and determination. "I can do this."

"I know." I lean down to kiss her forehead, fingers brushing her damp cheek. "You're the bravest."

The gurney is pushed into the elevator, straight to the delivery room. The hallway reeks of disinfectant, fluorescent lights cold and harsh, medical staff's footsteps urgent and orderly. I follow beside the gurney, unwilling to leave for even a step, until the delivery room doors open before my eyes.

I want to go in.

"Gabriel." Isabella suddenly grabs my hand, stopping my movement. "Don't come in."

I freeze: "What?"

"I don't want you to see." Her voice is soft but tone firm. "I don't want you to face those... unknown fears. You're already tense enough."

"Isabella—"

"Please." She interrupts me, eyes gentle and pleading. "Wait for me outside, okay? Trust me, trust the doctors. Just like I trust your seventeen routes."

I stare at her, throat tight. I want to say no, want to say I'm not afraid, want to say I must stay by her side. But I see the insistence in her eyes, see her determination to protect me even through pain.

"Okay." I grip her hand, restraining the impulse to rush in. "I'll wait for you outside."

She smiles, that smile holding pain, exhaustion, and a certain relief: "Don't worry, we'll see each other soon."

The gurney is pushed into the delivery room, heavy doors slowly closing before me. In the last second, I see her turn her head, mouth the words "it's okay," then the door completely shuts, shutting me out.

I stand in the hallway, staring at that closed door, suddenly realizing—right now I'm not the Sullivan family head, not the underground world crime boss, not that Gabriel who can solve everything with force.

I'm just a husband, a man about to become a father, waiting helplessly outside the delivery room.

Time becomes long and distorted. I pace the hallway, every minute and second feeling infinitely stretched. The red light above the operating room door glows like a warning, reminding me something I can't control is happening inside.

Quincy and Aiden guard the end of the hallway, giving me private space. Occasionally nurses enter and exit, and I immediately approach to ask about the situation, receiving only standard responses of "progressing smoothly," but those words can't ease my anxiety.

I pull out my phone, staring at the time on screen—one hour and forty-three minutes since Isabella went in. The doctor said first-time mothers' labor usually takes ten to twelve hours, but every minute is torture for me.

The phone vibrates, a message from Dominic: "Uncle Gabriel, is the baby born yet? I prepared a gift."

I stare at that line, throat tight, fingers trembling as I reply: "Not yet, soon."

After sending, I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. Images of Isabella first entering my line of sight float through my mind—sunlight streaming through the window onto her, like some sacred protection. Back then I didn't know this ordinary bookshop owner would become the most important person in my life, would make me willing to lay down all weapons just to protect her and our child.

"Mr. Sullivan."

I snap my eyes open, seeing Dr. Petrova emerge from the operating room, pulling down her mask, smile on her face.

"Congratulations, it's a healthy girl."

My brain briefly freezes, then floods with immense relief. I want to ask how Isabella is, want to ask the baby's weight and height, want to ask if there were any complications, but my throat feels blocked, unable to form words.

A nurse walks out holding a small bundle, pink blanket wrapping my daughter. She's so small, so small I can't believe this tiny life grew inside Isabella for nine months. Her eyes are closed, small hands curled into fists, skin wrinkled like a little old man.

"Sir, we'll take the baby to the ward first." The nurse says softly.

I nod, but can't tear my gaze from that small face. The nurse carries the child away, and I continue waiting by the door for Isabella to be brought out.

Another twenty minutes pass, then the delivery room doors open again.

Isabella lies on the gurney, face pale, forehead still damp with sweat, but eyes bright. She sees me and smiles weakly: "I'm okay."

I stride forward, gripping her hand—that hand is cold but squeezes back with strength: "How are you?"

"Tired." She says softly, "But fine. Where's the baby?"

"The nurse took her to the ward." I follow beside the gurney toward the ward, other hand gently stroking her hair. "Very healthy, a girl."

"I know." She closes her eyes, voice carrying exhausted satisfaction. "I heard her cry."

When we arrive at the ward, it's quiet inside, soft afternoon light filtering through gauze curtains. The nurse has already placed the baby in a special crib beside the bed.

Isabella is helped onto the bed, and I carefully adjust the pillows, making sure she's lying comfortably. The nurse lifts the baby, gently placing her beside Isabella, that small bundle immediately warming the entire bed.

Isabella turns her head, staring at her daughter's face, tears welling in her eyes: "She's so small."

"Mm." I sit on the bedside, also staring at that wrinkled little face. "But very healthy."

"Like you." Isabella says softly, extending a finger to touch the baby's cheek. "Look, this nose, and the curve of the chin."

"Like you." I correct her, pointing at the baby's closed eyes. "When she opens them, they'll definitely be your color."

Isabella laughs, exhausted but happy: "Let's give her a name."

I'm silent for a few seconds, countless options flashing through my mind—names I've thought about repeatedly over the past months, elegant ones, powerful ones, unique ones. But looking at this tiny life now, all complex thoughts vanish, leaving only one simple and pure word.

"Angel." I say. "We'll call her Angel."

Isabella pauses, then understands: "Angel?"

"Yes." I lean down, forehead touching hers. "She's our angel."

Isabella's tears fall, dampening the pillow. She doesn't speak, just nods forcefully, then closes her eyes, like she can finally rest easy.

I sit beside the bed, gaze falling on that small bundle. Angel—our daughter, mine and Isabella's angel. She doesn't yet know her father is the controller of the underworld, doesn't know her mother was once hunted by crime families, doesn't know her existence is a miracle born from blood and violence.

But she will know she is loved.

I reach out, fingertip gently touching her small hand. She suddenly moves, that little hand grasping in the air as if searching for something, then accurately gripping my finger.

In that instant, my vision blurs.

I stare at that small hand, feeling her warm body temperature, feeling her strong grip, feeling some unprecedented emotion explode in my chest—not possession, not protection, but something more pure, more profound.

I have a family.

Not the manor, not the underground empire, not those thrones built with violence and power. But this hospital bed, this exhausted woman, this tiny baby.

They are my home.