Chapter 115: The Birth – Part II

Cole and Maritza hurried in; nurses were readying the gurney, monitors blaring loudly. The lights revealed everything in harsh detail. The room smelled of bleach, metal, and fear.

Dr. Morales arrived quickly, ready to assist. “Maritza—onto the bed, now. Talk to me.”

Cole lowered her gently. Maritza's legs buckled on the tile. Her scream was raw and animalistic, unlike the prenatal class breathing.

“Three minutes—maybe less,” she panted, voice shredded to ribbons. “It’s coming too fast. It hurts—God, it hurts so fucking much—”

“That’s normal at thirty-six weeks,” Dr. Morales said, calm but urgent, gloved hands already parting Maritza’s thighs. “Breathe through it. Cole—her hand.”

Cole knelt, clutching her hand tightly. He wiped her forehead with his sleeve, getting sweat on his face. “You’re doing this, Ritz. Look at me. I’ve got you.”

Dr. Morales did a quickly. “Nine centimeters. Fully effaced. This baby’s not waiting for anyone.”

Maritza’s laugh cracked into a half-sob, half-scream. “He’s impatient—like his father.”

Cole tried to smile. It fractured. “Takes after you, love. Stubborn as hell.”

The next contraction slammed into her without mercy. Maritza’s back arched off the gurney, a guttural roar ripping from her throat. Sweat poured down her face, matting hair to her temples in dark ropes. Her maternity leggings were soaked—amniotic fluid mixed with fresh blood. She clawed at the sheets, nails shredding the thin paper cover into ribbons.

“I can’t—I can’t do this—” Her voice splintered into panicked gasps. “It’s too much—Cole, make it stop—”

“You can,” he said fiercely, forehead pressed to hers, tears already tracking down his own cheeks. “You’re the strongest woman I know. You survived bombs, betrayal, everything. This is just another fight. And I’m right here.”

Dr. Morales’s voice sliced through. “Push on the next one, Maritza. Head’s right there. One good push.”

The contraction built like a tidal wave. Maritza bore down—screaming, primal, face contorted, veins bulging in her neck. Her body shook with the effort. Cole held her leg back, whispering frantic promises against her ear—love, pride, forever—while tears streamed down his face unchecked.

Nothing happened.

Dr. Morales frowned. “Shoulder dystocia. We need to rotate. Maritza—stop pushing for a second. Breathe.”

Maritza’s head fell back, chest heaving. “I can’t breathe—there’s no time—”

“You have to,” the doctor snapped. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Cole—support her head.”

Cole slid behind her on the narrow gurney, arms encircling her shoulders, letting her lean into him. Her sweat-soaked back pressed against his chest. He kissed her temple, tasting salt and terror.

“Together,” he whispered. “We do this together.”

One more contraction.

Dr. Morales carefully rotated the shoulder, his hands inside, applying gentle but consistent pressure.

Maritza screamed again, the sound ripping through the room like glass shattering. Blood smeared the sheets in bright streaks. Monitors wailed—heart rate spiking, dipping, spiking again.

“Push now!” Dr. Morales ordered. “Hard—everything you’ve got!”

Maritza pushed—screaming, sobbing, body trembling with exhaustion. Her nails dug into Cole’s forearms, leaving deep crescent marks that immediately welled red. Cole held her tighter, murmuring through tears, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, almost there—”

A slippery rush. A wet, choking cry.

Dr. Morales lifted the baby—red, wrinkled, furious—cord still pulsing. “Boy. Strong cry. He’s here.”

The neonatal team swarmed. The baby—tiny, purple, furious—was placed on Maritza’s chest. She sobbed openly, hands shaking violently as she touched him—dark hair plastered to his scalp, tiny fists waving, chest heaving with indignant wails.

Cole’s tears fell onto her hair. “Look at him, Ritz. Look at our son.”

He was messy—covered in vernix and blood, cord still attached—but perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A shock of dark hair like Cole’s. A nose that already looked like Maritza’s.

The nurse wiped him down quickly, clamping the cord. Cole cut it with trembling hands.

“Xavier Elías Harrison-de León,” Maritza whispered, voice wrecked. “Welcome, baby boy.”

The name felt expensive—Xavier, strong and timeless; Elías, prophetic and poetic, carrying the weight of vision and light. A name that belonged to kings and poets, not war-torn heirs.

Cole pressed his lips to her forehead, then to the baby’s tiny head. “Hi, little fighter. We’ve been waiting.”

“God, he has your eyes and my everything…” Maritza smiled through fresh tears, exhaustion carving deep lines around her mouth. She shifted slightly, wincing as afterpains rolled through her abdomen. Xavier let out a small, indignant cry, tiny fists waving as if already protesting the cold world.

She looked up at Cole, eyes glassy. “I can’t believe he was born in the middle of a tequila war, your daddy being almost a fugitive, and we don’t have a home for our little guy, Cole.”

The words landed soft but heavy, cracking the fragile joy in the room. Cole’s smile faltered. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her or the baby, and took her hand.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know it .

“We fought for the recipe, the land, the legacy… and now he’s here, and I don’t even know where we’ll put his crib. The hacienda’s still half in repair from the explosions. The city house is leased. And Elena…” She swallowed. “Elena’s next door giving birth to her own daughter. My sister. The same sister who tried to take it all away.”

Cole brushed damp hair from her forehead. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“But how?” Her voice cracked. “I wanted him to come into safety. Warm blankets, a nursery painted blue and gold, grandparents waiting with open arms. Instead he’s born in a hospital after I just fucked you on a rooftop like the world was ending. And maybe it still is.”

Cole’s thumb traced her knuckles. “He’s not born into safety, Ritz. He’s born into us.

She turned back to Cole. “I want to see her. After this. After I hold him a little longer.”

Cole kissed her temple. “Then we go. Together.”

Xavier finished nursing, letting out a small, satisfied sigh. The nurse took him gently to clean and weigh—six pounds, four ounces, small but fierce.

Maritza watched her son being tended, then looked at Cole. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

“Better than okay. We’re going to be legendary.”

Though Maritza tried to imitate it, she wasn’t sure. She gazed at her hands before looking up at the clean, white ceiling.

“What if we move back to New York?” she whispered. “Or somewhere new, like Italy? Mexico doesn’t feel like home anymore… not since my abuela died. Besides you still have licence to practice law in New York so…”

He squeezed her hand, thumb brushing over bruised knuckles. “New York… Italy… I’d go anywhere with you and Xavier. My New York license never lapsed. We could start over—clean slate, no ghosts.”

Maritza’s eyes searched his, tears brimming. “You’d leave Mexico? The empire? Everything we fought for?”

“Yes, anything for you, Ritz.”

God, she was never happier than this.