Chapter 10 - The Legacy of the House
Six months later. August.
The sun was setting over the Potomac River, casting a warm, deep gold light across the lawn of 434 20 Foxhall Crescent.
The air was sweet with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass. The river fog had cleared completely, leaving the sky a vast, unbroken dome of pale violet and orange.
On the blue foam mats, which had been moved out of the playroom and set up on the flat stone terrace overlooking the river, four people were standing in white gis.
Oliver, now nine, was demonstrating a shoulder roll to his six-year-old brother, Finn.
Roman was sitting on a teak bench at the edge of the terrace, dressed in a white linen shirt and dark trousers, his laptop open on his knees. He was no longer managing the Baltimore docks through threats and midnight calls; three weeks ago, he had transferred fifty-one percent of the port operating stock into a family trust controlled jointly by himself and Josephine.
Josephine stood in the center of the mat.
She was seven months pregnant.
The dark blue gi she wore was custom-made, broad and deep enough to accommodate the massive, beautiful curve of her belly, tied loosely above her hips with her faded black belt. She looked immense—a magnificent, glowing monument of strength and life, her auburn hair tied up in a loose knot, her skin warm and golden in the evening sun.
She was supervising Oliver’s stance.
"Lower, Oliver," she commanded softly. "You're leaning on your toes again. Put the weight in your heels. Connect with the stone."
Oliver adjusted his feet, dropping his hips two inches, his small face tight with focus. "Like this?"
"Better," she said.
Roman closed his laptop, set it on the bench, and stood up. He walked across the slate flags until he was standing behind her, his arms reaching around her heavy waist to rest his large, scarred hands over the warm, round curve of her stomach.
He leaned his chin against her shoulder, smelling the clean vanilla of her neck.
"The doctor said you shouldn't be on the mat after thirty weeks," Roman murmured against her skin.
Josephine didn't turn around, but she leaned back into his chest, her full weight resting against his frame, confident that he would hold her.
"Dr. Vane is an obstetrician, Roman," she said smoothly. "He understands medicine. He doesn't understand center of mass. The baby is perfectly balanced."
"Is it a boy or a girl?" Roman asked, his hands feeling the small, powerful kick from within her belly against his palms.
Josephine turned her head slightly, her grey eyes looking into his pale blue ones with a cool, radiant warmth.
"It’s a girl," she said.
Roman went completely still for three seconds. He looked down at her round belly, then looked at Oliver and Finn, who were currently wrestling on the blue foam mats behind them.
"A girl," Roman repeated, his gravelly voice dropping into a soft whisper.
"A girl," Josephine confirmed. "She already weighs six pounds. She has her mother's shoulders."
Roman let out a low, deep laugh that vibrated through her back—a sound that carried across the terrace, over the stone walls, and down to the quiet waters of the Potomac below.
He reached around her, his fingers interlocking with hers over the curve of their daughter, pulling her heavy, solid body so close to his that there was no space left between them.
"Then God help the first boy who tries to grab her wrist," Roman whispered.
Josephine smiled—a wide, rich, beautiful smile that caught the last golden rays of the setting sun.
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"I'll teach her the hip-drop at four," she said.
And as the evening stars began to appear above the Foxhall Crescent estate, the Mafia boss, his curvy nanny, and their children stood together on the stone terrace—unshakable, immovable, and completely home.
