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whywontyoucomeout · 2 months ago

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The Prestige

(Note: This is a long story. There is kinky content near the end. Pls skip if you dont like kinky stuff).

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The obsidian marble beneath Valentina Castellano's heels clicked with each deliberate step as she approached the towering bronze doors of the Meridian Club. Even in the dim glow of the gas lamps that lined the underground entrance, the opulence was unmistakable—crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across walls adorned with Renaissance masterpieces that most museums could only dream of acquiring. This was no ordinary gathering place, but rather the crown jewel of the city’s shadow economy, where power brokers and kingpins conducted business away from prying eyes.

Valentina paused at the threshold, one gloved hand instinctively moving to rest against the imposing curve of her belly. The swell of her pregnancy was undeniably prominent—a perfect sphere that strained against the midnight blue silk of her gown. The fabric, despite being expertly tailored, could barely contain the fullness of her condition, and she found herself having to adjust her posture frequently to accommodate the weight that seemed to have settled low and heavy. Her empire waistline, positioned high beneath her breasts, allowed the silk to flow like liquid mercury over the impressive roundness that dominated her silhouette. Diamond earrings caught the gaslight as she tilted her head, listening to the muffled sounds of conversation and ragtime piano emanating from within.

The massive doors swung open with surprising silence, revealing two imposing figures in perfectly tailored black suits of the style fashionable in 1930. Beyond them, a steady stream of elegantly dressed guests moved through the marble-lined entrance hall, forming an orderly queue as they presented their invitations. The soft murmur of conversation mixed with the gentle shuffle of expensive shoes against polished stone.

The first guard was a mountain of a man whose scarred hands and weathered face spoke of decades navigating the city's prohibition-era violence. "Papers, ma'am," extending his hand while his eyes briefly took in her obviously expectant condition.

Valentina reached into her beaded clutch with practiced ease, allowing herself to move just a fraction slower than necessary. The guard examined her invitation thoroughly, his gaze moving between the elegant script and her face.

"Mrs. Valentina Castellano," he read aloud, then looked up with professional courtesy in his gravelly voice. “Please step up toward the security check”.

Valentina offered a gracious smile, her voice carrying the soft, refined tones of a well-bred lady. "Of course, sir. I understand completely." She shifted her weight subtly, the movement drawing attention to her considerable bulk while her free hand found the small of her back. "Please, do proceed with whatever is necessary. I only ask your patience—I find myself moving rather more slowly these days."

The weathered guard's face softened as his gaze dropped to her impressively swollen belly. Behind them, the queue of guests continued their patient procession, the soft conversations creating a backdrop of civilized anticipation.

"Naturally, ma'am. Our usual protocols require a brief security check, but given your... condition..." he began, his hand moving toward the security wand at his belt with obvious reluctance.

Valentina nodded graciously. “Sure, I understand”. Valentina answered with labored breath. She fumbled with her garments, proceeded to be examined. Viktor's expression immediately shifted to one of concern. In his twenty years of working security for the underworld's elite, he had developed an instinct for reading people, and what he saw in Valentina was genuine discomfort mixed with the quiet dignity of a woman accustomed to power. More importantly, he recognized the tactical advantage of treating the high class guests with the respect they position demanded.

"Of course, Mrs. Castellano. No need for the usual formalities tonight." He stepped aside, gesturing toward the opulent interior where the sound of string quartet music mixed with the gentle clink of crystal glasses.

The young guard behind him, however, stepped forward with the rigid determination of someone still learning the nuanced rules of their profession. "Sir," he said in a low, urgent whisper that still carried clearly in the marble-lined entrance, "Mr. Salvatore Maroni specifically mentioned that with him present tonight, every guest needs to undergo the full security protocol. No exceptions."

The older guard's jaw tightened as he turned toward his colleague. Valentina remained perfectly still, her dark eyes demurely focused on her gloved hands. "Please, don't let my condition interfere with your duties. I shall manage quite well, though I do hope you'll forgive me if I need to pause occasionally." As if to emphasize her point, she placed a steadying hand against the doorframe, her breathing becoming just slightly more labored. The movement was so natural, so unconsciously feminine, that it seemed to happen without her awareness. Behind them, the sounds of impatience started to emit from the queue of guests.

After a moment that stretched like an eternity, the older guard made his decision. "Mrs. Castellano may proceed. Tonight's... complications don't extend to ladies in her delicate condition."

Valentina's relief was genuine, though she maintained her gracious composure. "Thank you both so very much for your consideration. I do hope this evening proves pleasant for everyone."

As she moved past them into the luxurious interior, the silk of her gown whispered against the marble floor. She navigated with the careful, swaying gait of a woman carrying considerable weight, one hand trailing along the wall for support. The bronze doors closed behind her with a soft, final sound.

Inside the Meridian Club, crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across walls lined with what appeared to be genuine Old Masters. Men in expensive suits clustered around small tables, their conversations punctuated by the clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the sweet scent of bootleg champagne. Women in beaded gowns moved between the groups like exotic birds, their jewelry catching the light. The Meridian Club's main ballroom was a symphony of illegal opulence. Valentina moved through the gathering with the unhurried pace her condition demanded, her silk gown catching the light from chandeliers that had once graced European palaces. She accepted a glass of what appeared to be genuine French champagne from a passing waiter, though she merely held it for appearances.

"Terrible business about the warehouse fires," she overheard a distinguished gentleman saying to his companion as she paused near a marble pillar, ostensibly to rest. "Third one this month. Someone's making a statement."

His companion, a thin man with nervous hands, glanced around before responding. "Word is it's connected to the new shipping routes from Canada. Territory disputes."

Valentina shifted her weight, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position. The movement was natural enough—any woman in her condition would need frequent rests—but it allowed her to linger near their conversation without appearing to eavesdrop.

"Boss is not pleased," the first man continued, lowering his voice. "Meeting tonight is specifically about consolidating control. Can't have independents thinking they can muscle in."

She moved away before they might notice her presence, drifting toward the far end of the ballroom where a small orchestra played lively jazz. Her path took her past clusters of conversations, each pause seemingly dictated by her physical needs but positioning her perfectly to catch fragments of discussion.

When she emerged from the main events room, Valentina noticed a small commotion near the back entrance. A latecomer had arrived—a woman in an elaborate emerald gown who commanded immediate attention from several guests. As people shifted to greet the newcomer, Valentina found herself with a clearer view of the elevated section.

There, in a circular arrangement of leather chairs, sat a group of men in expensive suits. Even from her distance, she could see that their conversation was intense, their postures suggesting important business. One figure sat with his back partially turned to the ballroom—a man whose mere presence seemed to create a gravitational pull in the room's social dynamics.

Valentina began making her way in that direction, her progress necessarily slow and punctuated by frequent pauses. She stopped at various points, sometimes placing a hand on a nearby chair or table as if to steady herself, sometimes engaging in brief pleasantries with other guests who expressed concern for her comfort.

She watched as various men approached the central group, some staying for extended conversations, others delivering what appeared to be brief reports before withdrawing. The pattern was clear to anyone who took the time to observe: this was where decisions were being made.

The man who had been sitting with his back to the ballroom—clearly the focal point of the entire gathering—began to turn in his chair. Conversations throughout the nearby area seemed to quiet slightly, as if by instinct.

Valentina was adjusting her position, one hand pressed to the small of her back in apparent discomfort, when their eyes met across the shortened distance.

Salvatore Maroni was younger than she had expected, perhaps forty-five, with the kind of sharp intelligence in his dark eyes that had built empires in the shadows of Prohibition. His gaze took in her condition immediately, then moved to her face with the calculating assessment of a man accustomed to reading people quickly and accurately.

For a moment that felt suspended in time, they simply looked at each other. Then the mafia boss rose from his chair with fluid grace and began walking directly toward her, his movement causing a subtle ripple of attention throughout the elevated section.

Valentina remained where she stood, one hand still pressed to her back, her expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity about the approaching stranger.

The crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across the opulent ballroom as Valentina adjusted her silk gloves, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. The baby kicked restlessly, as if sensing the danger that surrounded them both. She forced herself to breathe slowly, steadily, as she had been trained to do.

"Mrs...?" The voice was smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of an accent that spoke of old country roots and new world power.

She turned, her movements carefully calculated to appear awkward with her pregnancy. " Valentina Castellano." The name rolled off her tongue as naturally as if she'd been born with it.

Salvatore “The Boss” Maroni stood before her, impeccably dressed in a tailored tuxedo that couldn't quite hide the predatory gleam in his dark eyes. He was smaller than she'd expected from the photographs, but there was something about his presence that filled the space around him—a quiet menace that had kept him alive and in power for over two decades.

"Ah, a fellow Italian." His smile was warm, but his eyes remained cold, calculating. "Tell me, Mrs. Valentina , how are you finding the party? The music, the champagne..." He gestured to a passing waiter carrying a silver tray. "Though I suppose you're not partaking in the latter."

"The music is lovely," she replied, allowing a slight tremor to enter her voice—the nervousness of a woman out of her depth. "Though I must admit, I feel a bit... overwhelmed. Such grandeur."

Maroni nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. "First time at one of my gatherings?"

"Yes, sir." She lowered her eyes demurely, then looked up through her lashes. "My cousin Maria—Maria Delacroix—she said I simply had to attend. That it would be good for me to get out."

"Maria, yes." His expression didn't change, but she caught the slight pause, the way his fingers drummed once against his thigh. Testing. Always testing. "Sweet girl. Married that French boy, didn't she? Against her father's wishes, if I recall."

Valentina's face clouded with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Oh, Mr. Maroni, I hope you don't think less of her for that. She was so torn up about disappointing Uncle Enzo." She twisted her wedding ring nervously. "But Jacques, he's... he's actually been wonderful for her. He converted to Catholicism, learned to make proper ragu, even started calling Uncle Enzo 'Papa' instead of his real father's name. Maria says Uncle Enzo's coming around, especially now that little Giuseppe is walking."

The detail hung in the air between them—intimate family knowledge that only someone truly connected would possess. Maroni's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, but Valentina caught it. The first test, passed.

The baby kicked again, harder this time, and Valentina winced genuinely. The movement, the slight grimace of pain, seemed to satisfy something in Maroni 's watchful gaze.

"You seem to be managing well on your own tonight," he continued, his tone conversational but his words weighted with meaning. "Where is your husband? Surely he wouldn't let his wife attend such an event alone, especially in your... delicate condition."

This was the moment. She could feel the attention of several nearby guests subtly turning toward their conversation, though they pretended to be absorbed in their own discussions. Even the jazz quartet seemed to play more softly, as if the entire room was holding its breath.

Valentina ‘s hand tightened protectively over her belly, and she let genuine anger flash in her eyes—the fury of a betrayed woman. When she spoke, her voice carried just the right note of bitter disappointment.

"My stupid husband is probably at Rosetti's card table right now, losing the money he was supposed to save." She shook her head, looking down at her hands. "Ever since this belly started to grow big, he hasn't looked at me the same way anymore”. Deep sadness filled Valentina’s eyes. “I feel so lonely at times."

For a moment, something almost like genuine sympathy flickered across Maroni 's features. Then his smile returned, warmer now, though no less dangerous.

"Mrs. Castellano, I think you underestimate yourself." He reached out and gently patted her arm, a gesture that might have seemed fatherly to observers. "A woman like you, who can carry herself with such dignity despite her circumstances... that takes a special kind of strength."

She felt her pulse quicken, but kept her expression puzzled, innocent. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." His laugh was soft, almost fond. "Come, let me introduce you to some people. Perhaps we can find a solution to your husband's... gambling problem."

As he guided her deeper into the crowd, Valentina allowed herself the smallest exhale of relief. The first test was passed. But she knew Salvatore Maroni hadn't survived this long by trusting easily. The real challenges were just beginning.

The evening progressed like a carefully choreographed dance. Maroni introduced her to his associates—men with hard eyes and soft handshakes, their wives dripping in jewels that caught the light like captured stars. Through it all, he remained close, his attention focused on her with an intensity that made her skin crawl even as she smiled graciously.

"You know," he said during a lull in conversation, his voice lower now, more intimate, "there's something about you, Mrs. Castellano. Something that sets you apart from these peacocks." His eyes traveled deliberately over her figure, lingering on the curve of her pregnancy before meeting her gaze again.

Valentina felt heat rise to her cheeks—part genuine discomfort, part calculated response. "Mr. Maroni, I—"

"Call me Salvatore," he corrected, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more dangerous. "And please, don't look so shocked. Pregnancy... it brings out something primal in a woman. Something beautiful and powerful." His finger traced along her gloved wrist. "Your husband is a fool to leave such a treasure unguarded."

She allowed herself to appear flustered, her breathing quickening in a way that could be mistaken for attraction rather than the adrenaline coursing through her system. "You're very kind, but I shouldn't—"

"Shouldn't what?" His smile was predatory now, all pretense of gentlemanly behavior falling away. "Shouldn't accept a compliment? Shouldn't allow yourself to feel desired?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Shouldn't let a real man show you what you've been missing?"

The baby kicked hard against her ribs, and she gasped—a sound Maroni clearly interpreted as something else entirely. His hand moved to the small of her back, possessive and insistent.

"You're trembling," he murmured, and she realized with alarm that she was. Not from fear or revulsion, but from the effort of maintaining perfect control while every instinct screamed at her to act. "Come. Let me show you something private. Away from all these eyes."

Before she could protest—though her cover demanded she appear conflicted rather than resistant—he was guiding her through a side door, down a richly carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who looked like they'd killed for less than a sideways glance.

His private study was exactly what she'd expected: dark wood paneling, leather-bound books that had never been read, and a massive desk that spoke of power and intimidation. But it was the wall safe behind the portrait of his mother that made her pulse quicken for entirely different reasons.

"Much better," Maroni said, closing the door behind them with a soft click that sounded like a trap springing shut. "Now we can really get to know each other."

He moved toward her with the confidence of a man who had never been refused, never been denied. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer despite the barrier of her pregnancy.

"Maroni, sir, please," she whispered, her voice carefully breathless. "This is... this is happening so fast."

"The best things always do," he replied, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Don't think, bella. Just feel."

As his hands grew bolder, as his breathing grew heavier against her neck, Valentina’s eyes remained sharp and calculating. She catalogued every detail: the position of the safe, the weight of the letter opener on his desk, the distance to the door. Her fingers, appearing to clutch at his jacket in passion, were actually feeling for the outline of the weapon she knew he carried.

The baby kicked again, violently this time, and she cried out—a sound of genuine discomfort that Maroni mistook for something else entirely.

"That's it," he whispered roughly, his hands moving with extreme intent. "Let me take care of you the way a woman like you deserves." He immediately drew in and started kissing her and grabbing her breasts, pushing her backwards towards the bed.

In that moment, as his guard dropped completely, as his attention focused solely on his conquest, Valentina’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The helpless, overwhelmed pregnant woman melted away, replaced by something cold and lethal.

"What the—"

Maroni 's words were cut short as Valentina stepped back with fluid grace that seemed impossible for someone in her condition. In one swift motion, her leg swept up high, her foot connecting with his throat and pinning him against the oak-paneled wall. Her belly, swayed to the side to make room for the leg in action, hanging low and impossible big, yet did not slow her down one bit. The movement was so fast, so precise, that he barely had time to register what was happening before he found himself trapped, gasping for air.

"Shh," she whispered, her voice no longer trembling with nervous excitement but steady as steel. "Make a sound louder than a whisper, and I'll crush your windpipe before your guards can even reach the door."

Maroni 's eyes bulged with shock and terror. The predatory confidence had vanished, replaced by the dawning realization that he was prey. He tried to speak, to call out, but the pressure on his throat allowed only the faintest wheeze.

"Good," Valentina said, her free hand moving to her swollen belly in what looked like a protective gesture but was actually something else entirely. From within the specially designed padding, she withdrew a thin, gleaming blade. "Now, Salvatore Maroni, we're going to have a very different kind of conversation."

His hands clawed at her foot, trying to relieve the pressure, but she adjusted her position with mathematical precision. Every movement was controlled, calculated. The baby bump that had made her appear vulnerable was revealing itself to be something far more tactical.

"The shipment arriving tomorrow at Pier 47," she continued conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Tell me about it. The one from Mexico with Capone's blessing."

Maroni 's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. She eased the pressure just enough to let him speak.

"I... I don't know what you're—"

The blade appeared at his jugular before he could finish the lie. "Wrong answer. My intelligence says otherwise. The guns, Salvatore. The new Thompson submachine guns. Where are they being distributed?"

"I… I… how?" he gasped.

"Nine seconds."

"Sweet Mary, mother of—" He tried to struggle, but her positioning was flawless, her leverage absolute. Years of training distilled into this single moment of perfect control.

"Eight."

"The warehouse!" he choked out. "The old brewery on Sullivan Street! But you'll never—"

"Distribution network?"

"Seven families." Fears fill his eyes. "How could you be prepared to be pregnant? Jesus Christ, how deep do you know?"

"Deeper than you can imagine." She pressed the blade a fraction closer. "The other families. Names."

The information poured out of him like blood from a wound—names, locations, dates, amounts. Everything the Bureau needed to dismantle his entire operation. Her mind catalogued each detail with photographic precision, storing away every revelation for the report she'd never live to file if she made even one mistake.

When he finished, gasping and shaking, she studied his face with clinical detachment.

"Please," he whispered. "I have children. Grandchildren."

"So did the families your guns killed," she replied softly. "So did the children caught in your territory wars."

"Who... who are you?" he gasped, terror peaked in his eyes.

"Someone who's been planning this conversation for a year," she replied, her voice eerily calm. "Someone who learned everything about your operation, your habits, your weaknesses. Someone who knows that your one fatal flaw is your inability to resist a pregnant woman." Her smile was razor-sharp. "Now, the Bureau sends its regards."

The word 'Bureau' hit him like a physical blow. His face went white.

"Bureau? You're... federal?"

“Doesn’t matter to you now anyway”, Valentina smiled, as she applied the pressure from her foot.

"Wait, please, I can give you more. I can—"

Valentina’s foot moved with deadly speed, finding the exact spot that would ensure silent death without struggle. Maroni 's eyes widened in surprise rather than pain, then slowly closed as his body went limp.

Valentina lowered her leg, stepping back to survey her work. She adjusted the padding around her middle, smoothing her dress, checking her hair in the mirror above his desk. She looks at herself in the mirror, her mind racing back to that fateful night where it all began.

—------------------------------------------------------------

9 months earlier

The case files were scattered across the kitchen table like fallen leaves, photographs of crime scenes mixing with surveillance reports and witness statements that led nowhere. Catherine Kyle rubbed her temples, trying to ease the headache that had been building for hours as she stared at the same dead ends that had plagued the Bureau for three years.

"Cat, you need to eat something." Her husband James set a plate of scrambled eggs beside her elbow, his own FBI badge catching the morning light as he leaned over to kiss the top of her head. "And maybe get some sleep. You've been at this all night."

"I can't, James. Not when we're this close." She gestured at the photos of Salvatore Maroni—grainy surveillance shots, blurry images from social events, always surrounded by his protective circle of killers. "Three years, James. Three years and sixteen dead agents. The Bureau is ready to classify him as untouchable."

James Kyle pulled out the chair beside her, his weathered face creased with concern. At thirty-five, he'd seen enough cases consuming good agents to recognize the warning signs. "Maybe they're right. Maybe it's time to try a different approach."

"What different approach?" Catherine's green eyes flashed with frustration. "We've tried everything. Undercover operations—he has them made within a week. Infiltrating his businesses—his security is too tight. Following his money—he's got judges and bankers in his pocket. The man is a ghost who happens to leave bodies in his wake."

She stood up abruptly, pacing to the window that overlooked their modest apartment. At twenty-eight, Catherine Kyle was the youngest agent ever assigned to the Organized Crime Division, and the only woman. She'd fought for every case, proved herself with every arrest, but Maroni remained her white whale.

"We've been studying him for months," she continued, her voice heavy with frustration. "His patterns, his habits, his associates. There's something there, James. Something we're missing."

James rubbed his temples, staring at the photographs and documents they'd assembled over the past year. "We've been over this a hundred times, Cat. His inner circle, his business partners, the judges and officials he's bought. We know who they are, we know what favors they owe him, but we can't prove a damn thing."

"That's just it." Catherine slumped into her chair, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. "We keep hitting the same walls. Every lead on his associates goes nowhere. The corruption network is too tight, too careful." She gestured helplessly at the surveillance photos. "Judge Kellerman, DA Morrison, City Councilman Chen—we know they're in his pocket, but they're untouchable."

"Twelve months of surveillance on his social events," James muttered, flipping through reports. "Cataloging every handshake, every conversation between Maroni and these men. And what do we have to show for it? Nothing concrete enough for an indictment."

Catherine stared at the evidence board, her eyes unfocused. "We're missing something fundamental. Something obvious that we're just not seeing because we're too focused on..."

She trailed off, then suddenly sat up straighter.

"James, what if we've been looking at this all wrong?"

"How do you mean?"

She moved to the surveillance photos, scanning them with fresh eyes. "We've spent months analyzing every interaction between Maroni and the men in his circle. Every conversation, every deal, every favor exchanged. But what about their wives?"

James looked skeptical. "The wives? Cat, they're just... they're arm candy. Trophy wives there to look pretty and make small talk."

"Are they?" Catherine pulled out several photos from different events, laying them side by side. "Look at these images again, but this time ignore the men completely. Focus only on the women."

James approached reluctantly, then found himself studying the photographs with new interest. "Okay, I'm looking. They're all well-dressed, obviously wealthy..."

"Keep looking. What else do you notice?"

He examined each photo more carefully, his detective instincts slowly kicking in. The women's postures, their body language, the way they carried themselves... "They're all..." He paused, counting. "Jesus, Cat. They're all pregnant."

"Not just pregnant," Catherine said, her voice growing excited as the pieces fell into place. "Look at how far along they are. Mrs. Kellerman in this photo, Mrs. Morrison from the March gathering, Mrs. Chen from September..."

James studied the timeline, his expression growing darker. "They're all at roughly the same stage. Seven, maybe eight months along."

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. After months of focusing on the wrong targets, the real pattern had been hiding in plain sight.

"You think he's using them as informants?"

"I think he's obsessed with them," Catherine said quietly. "My contact in the Italian community says it goes back to his mother. She died in childbirth when he was twelve, trying to deliver what would have been his brother. The trauma shaped him in ways that make pregnant women both his weakness and his obsession."

James was quiet for a long moment, studying his wife's face. He could see the wheels turning, and could almost hear the dangerous plan forming in her mind.

"Cat, no."

"James —"

"No. Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no." He stood up, his voice rising. "You're talking about getting pregnant to catch a killer. Do you understand how insane that sounds?"

"Do you understand how many people die every month because we can't touch him?" she shot back. "Sixteen agents, James. Sixteen good men who left wives and children behind because conventional methods don't work with Maroni ."

"Then we find another way!"

"What other way?" She grabbed a file from the table, waving it at him. "The Bertinelli, the Benedettos, the whole connection—it all runs through him. Take him down, and we break the back of organized crime on the East Coast. Leave him alone, and the body count keeps rising."

James ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Catherine recognized as his attempt to stay calm. "Even if you're right about his obsession, even if getting pregnant would get you close to him—Cat, you're talking about carrying a child into mortal danger."

"I'm talking about being the only female agent in the Bureau, which means I'm the only one who can get close enough to him to make this work." Her voice softened slightly. "James, we've been trying to have a baby anyway. The timing could work perfectly."

"The timing?" He stared at her in disbelief. "You want to plan a pregnancy around a mafia investigation?"

"I want to plan a pregnancy around ending one of the most dangerous criminal enterprises in the country." She moved closer to him, taking his hands in hers. "Listen to me. Maroni 's next major gathering is planned for late spring next year. If we time this right, I'd be about seven months pregnant—far enough along to catch his attention, not so far that I couldn't handle myself if things go wrong."

"If things go wrong, you could lose the baby. You could lose your life."

"If we don't try this, dozens more people will lose their lives." She squeezed his hands. "James, I'm the best agent the Bureau has for close combat. You know that. My record speaks for itself."

"Your record doesn't include being seven months pregnant!"

Catherine was quiet for a moment, then spoke with deadly calm. "What if we fake it? Padding, prosthetics?"

James' eyes lit up with hope. "That could work. The risk would be minimal—"

"No." Catherine shook her head. "It wouldn't work. A man like Maroni doesn't survive by being careless. He'd see through a fake pregnancy in minutes—the way I move, the way I carry myself, a thousand little details that only a real pregnancy would provide. The plan only works if everything is authentic."

They stared at each other across the kitchen, the morning light casting long shadows between them. Finally, James sank back into his chair.

"Seven months," he said quietly.

"Seven months. Big enough to be obvious, small enough that I can still fight if I have to."

"And if the Bureau won't authorize it?"

Catherine’s smile was sharp as a blade. "Then they don't need to know the pregnancy was intentional. As far as they're concerned, Agent Catherine Kyle got pregnant and decided to use her condition to finally crack an impossible case."

James was quiet for a long time, staring at the photographs scattered across their table. Finally, he looked up at his wife—at the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw that he recognized from every major arrest she'd ever made.

"When do we start?" he asked.

Catherine smiled and began calculating dates in her head. By the time Salvatore Maroni held his next gathering, she would be carrying the perfect weapon to bring him down.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

7 months later…

"What?"

The word exploded from Catherine’s lips with such fury that James actually took a step back. She stood in their living room, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, the other gripping the back of their sofa so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

"Cat, please, just listen—"

"Listen to what?" Her green eyes blazed with an anger James had rarely seen, even in their most heated professional disagreements. "Listen to how 7 months of planning, 7 months of my body, 7 months of our lives have just been thrown away because the event is canceled?"

James moved toward her carefully, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Which is exactly why I'm relieved. Thank God it's off. Cat, you and the baby are safe now."

"Safe?" She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in their quiet apartment. "Do you see this?" She gestured to her prominently rounded stomach. "Months of preparation. Months of timing everything perfectly. And for what?"

"For nothing, and I couldn't be happier," James said softly. "Cat, look at yourself. Really look. You're seven months pregnant. You can barely see your own feet. The idea of you going up against a killer in your condition was insane from the start."

"My condition is exactly what would have gotten me close enough to put a bullet in that bastard's head." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And now it's all for nothing."

For a moment, the fight went out of her. She sank onto the sofa, both hands cradling her belly as the baby kicked restlessly, as if sensing the tension. When she looked up at James, desperation filled her eyes.

"Tell me more about it. What exactly did they say? Who made the decision?"

James sat beside her reluctantly, recognizing the tone that meant she wouldn't let this go. "The Bureau got cold feet. Too much risk, they said. Too many variables."

"But what about intelligence? The months of surveillance? All that work can't just be—"

"Cat, let it go."

"No." She turned to face him fully. "Something's not right. You're not telling me everything. What aren't you saying, James?"

He was quiet for a long time, and she could see the internal struggle playing out across his face. Finally, he sighed in defeat.

"It's... it's not exactly canceled."

Catherine's eyes sharpened like a predator scenting prey. "What do you mean 'not exactly'?"

"It's been delayed. Postponed."

"When?" The word came out as barely a whisper, hope flickering in her voice.

"Cat—"

"When, James? When is the new date?"

He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he spoke with obvious reluctance.

"Two months."

Catherine's eyes widened, then began to shine with renewed hope and excitement. "Two months. That would make me..."

"Full term," James said, his voice suddenly sharp with alarm as he realized what she was thinking. "Thirty-eight, thirty-nine weeks. Cat, no. Absolutely not."

Her face lit up with the same fierce determination he'd seen when she'd first proposed this insane plan. "It could work. It could actually work even better. A woman that far along, that vulnerable—he'd never suspect."

"A woman that far along could go into labor at any moment!" James shot to his feet, pacing away from her. "Do you want to give birth in the middle of a firefight? Are you completely out of your mind?"

"I'm close to finishing what we started." Catherine struggled to her feet, her excitement making her movements more animated despite her bulk. "James, we're so close. Closer than anyone's ever been to taking him down."

"We're close to getting you and our baby killed!" His composure cracked completely. "Jesus, Catherine, listen to yourself! You're talking about going on a deadly mission when you're ready to pop!"

"I'm talking about completing the most important case of our careers!"

"You're talking about suicide!" James turned to face her, his face flushed with anger and fear. "I won't allow it. I forbid it. The answer is no, Catherine. Absolutely, unequivocally no."

But she was already calculating, her mind racing through possibilities. "I'm still the best hand-to-hand combatant the Bureau has. Pregnancy doesn't change that."

"Doesn't it?" He moved toward her, his eyes desperate. "Can you honestly tell me you're as fast, as agile as you were nine months ago?"

Instead of answering with words, Catherine smiled. In one fluid motion, she pivoted on her heel, using his moment of distraction to sweep his legs and guide him backward. Despite her bulk, despite the awkwardness of her condition, the movement was perfectly executed. James found himself on his back on their bed, staring up at his wife in amazement.

"Fast enough," she said, settling beside him with a satisfied smile. "Strong enough. Smart enough." Her hand trailed down his chest. "And apparently still attractive enough to catch a dangerous man off guard."

James's resistance was weakening, and they both knew it. "Cat..."

Despite everything, James found himself staring at her—really looking at the woman above him. The way pregnancy had transformed her body into something both powerful and feminine, her breasts fuller, her hips curved, that taut round belly that spoke of life and strength. His hands moved to span her waist, or what was left of it.

"God help me," he murmured, his voice roughening. "I'm starting to understand Maroni . I'm beginning to see what draws him to women like you."

"Like me?" Catherine's voice was breathless as his hands explored the changes in her body.

"The curves," he whispered, his palms tracing the swell of her belly, the fullness of her breasts. "The way you look so soft, so ripe, so..." His eyes met hers. "So incredibly beautiful carrying our child. That bastard sees the vulnerability, the maternal glow, the round belly and thinks 'easy prey.'"

"And you?" she asked, her lips finding the sensitive spot just below his jaw.

"I get the better version," James's voice was thick with desire and admiration. "I see all that beauty, all that feminine power, but I also know what's underneath. The deadly training, the sharp mind, the woman who can kill with her bare hands while looking like she should be home knitting booties."

Catherine laughed against his neck. "Are you comparing yourself to a murderer, Agent James Kyle?"

"I'm comparing myself to a man who can't resist his wife when she's this magnificent, this dangerous, this..." His hands cupped her face. "This is absolutely irresistible."

“I know”. Catherine laughed playfully as she leaned toward his body.

"Well. I'll need the baby's cooperation, of course," she continued, her voice taking on a playful tone as her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. "I'm hoping he or she decides to stay put until mama finishes her work. No early arrivals, no inconvenient timing." She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think you could have a word with our child about professional courtesy?"

As Catherine's laugh dissolved into a deeper kiss, as their conversation shifted into whispered endearments and gentle touches that accommodated her condition, James found himself surrendering to both his desire and his wife's unshakeable determination.

Two months. Two months until she would use every weapon at her disposal—including the child they'd created—to bring down the most dangerous criminal on the East Coast.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And yes, you did. Thanks for your cooperation tonight, little one," Agent Catherine Kyle whispered to her unborn child, smoothing her hands over her swollen belly as she met her own eyes in the ornate mirror of Salvatore Maroni's private chamber. The reflection showed a demure society wife in pearls and silk, not the federal agent who had just crushed a crime lord's windpipe with her heel.

Behind her, Salvatore Maroni's body lay crumpled on the Persian rug where he'd fallen, his face purple and grotesque. The surprise in his eyes had lasted only seconds before her foot came down with lethal precision on his throat. All those months of combat training, adapted for her condition, had paid off. The knife she used just for interrogation was put back, concealed behind the garment—sometimes the simplest methods were the most effective. Catherine allowed herself exactly thirty seconds to catch her breath, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the mirror, before snapping back into action.

She moved to the body with practiced efficiency. The Bureau had been tracking Salvatore Maroni for three years, and they knew he carried his most valuable secrets not in any ledger or document, but etched permanently into his own flesh. Catherine knelt beside the corpse and began unbuttoning his shirt with clinical detachment.

There, sprawled across his pale chest in intricate black ink, was what the Bureau had been hunting for—a detailed tattoo map of underground tunnels, complete with coordinates and coded symbols marking safe houses, weapons caches, and money drops. But it was the names tattooed along his ribs that would truly bring down his empire: every corrupt judge, politician, and police captain on his payroll, rendered in elegant script along the curve of his torso. On his back, the names of all smaller mafia families that submitted to him were also laid out before her eyes.

Catherine pulled out the tiny camera hidden in her compact and methodically photographed every inch of the macabre artwork. The intelligence tattooed on Salvatore Maroni's body would dismantle the largest criminal network in the country.

She snapped the compact shut and moved to the massive oak desk. Salvatore Maroni's appointment book lay open, revealing meetings scheduled through the end of the month. Catherine photographed the pages with the tiny camera hidden in her compact, capturing names, dates, and locations that would give the Bureau everything they needed to roll up his entire organization.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed eight-thirty. She'd been gone from the party for exactly fifteen minutes—much longer and someone would come looking. Catherine quickly rearranged the scene, positioning Salvatore Maroni to look as though he'd simply had too much to drink and dozed off. By morning, when they found him truly dead, she'd be long gone. But now, the escape route…

“You know, if it wasn't for you, I would have just crawled the air ducts and jumped rooftops. Your mom is more action likey, you know”. Catherine talked jokingly looking down to her massive belly. “But, since I got it done thanks to you, I need to waddle through a thousand eyes again”.

She was adjusting her dress and fixing her hair when a sharp pain shot through her lower back and wrapped around her belly like a vice. Catherine gripped the edge of the desk, breathing through the contraction.

"Really?" she muttered, glaring down at her stomach as the pain subsided. "You've been the perfect partner all evening, and now you decide to make your grand entrance? Your timing, my dear child, leaves something to be desired."

The sound of footsteps in the hallway sent adrenaline flooding through her veins. Catherine straightened her shoulders, placed one hand on her lower back in the universal gesture of pregnancy discomfort, and prepared to play the role that would get her—and her baby—out of this mansion alive.

She opened the door with a satisfied smile. 2 guards at the door straightened as she emerged, their eyes automatically dropping to the small but unmistakable stain she'd carefully applied to her dress during her preparation.

"Gentlemen," she purred, adjusting her shawl with deliberate modesty. "Mr. Salvatore Maroni is quite... satisfied. He asked that I see myself out quietly."

Tommy nodded knowingly, his scarred face breaking into a crude grin. The evidence of her supposed encounter was exactly what these men expected to see. But Eddie frowned, tilting his head toward the closed door.

"It's awfully quiet in there, Tommy. Usually the boss likes his music after..."

Catherine felt her pulse quicken but kept her expression serene. "He mentioned wanting to rest. All that excitement, you understand." She placed a hand on her belly for emphasis.

Eddie's frown deepened. "I'm gonna take a quick look. Make sure everything's—"

"Of course," Catherine interrupted smoothly, stepping aside. "I do hope I haven't tired him too much."

Eddie pushed open the door and stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding Salvatore Maroni's crumpled form on the Persian rug. The boss's face was purple, his eyes bulging, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

"Jesus Christ!" Eddie gasped, his hand flying to his gun. "Tommy! TOMMY!"

He spun toward the door, ready to raise the alarm, but froze. The pregnant woman stood directly behind him, having moved with impossible silence. Her demure smile was gone, replaced by something cold and predatory. In that split second, Eddie realized he'd made a terrible mistake.

"How did you—"

The question died in his throat as darkness claimed him.

Catherine caught Eddie's unconscious form as he collapsed, easing him to the floor with practiced care. Outside in the hallway, Tommy lay equally still where she'd left him. She worked quickly now, dragging both men into the chamber's adjoining bathroom. Tommy was heavier, but adrenaline and months of modified training gave her the strength she needed. She positioned them both in the large marble bathtub, checking their pulses to ensure they were merely unconscious. She didn't want to kill them, just needed them out of her way.

Satisfied, she locked the bathroom door and pocketed that key as well, then secured the main study door from the outside. There should be twenty minutes before anyone else came looking.

Just as Catherine walked away from the door, the second contraction hit, twice as strong as the first. She doubled over, gripping the doorframe as the pain radiated through her entire torso. As it subsided, she felt a warm rush of fluid down her legs.

Her water had broken.

"Oh, perfect timing, sweetheart," she whispered through gritted teeth, looking down at her belly with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "Mama's in the middle of the most dangerous mission of her career, and you decide it's moving day. I suppose all this excitement has you eager to meet the world."

Catherine took a shaky breath and forced herself to move. She had perhaps an hour before the contractions became too intense to function. More than enough time to get out of —if she moved fast.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Downstairs, the hall thrummed with jazz music and drunken laughter. The baby inside Catherine seemed to press downward with each passing second, as if sensing the urgency.

Catherine forced herself to breathe through her nose, drawing on every technique they'd taught her at Quantico. Mind over matter. Control through discipline. She smoothed her dress, checked her reflection in the window's black glass, and walked toward the door.

The hallway stretched before her like a gauntlet. Persian rugs covered the hardwood floors—thank God for small mercies. Her heels clicked against the wood between carpets, but the sound was masked by the music below. Another contraction hit as she reached the top of the staircase, this one stronger than the last. She gripped the banister, willing her face to remain composed.

Smile. Look bored. You're just another dame leaving another boring meeting.

A drop of amniotic fluid hit the carpet runner. Then another. Catherine glanced back and saw the dark spots marking her path like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her forehead, using the motion to glance behind her. The trail was faint but visible if someone knew what to look for.

The main floor was a maze of cigarette smoke and silk stockings. Couples pressed close on the dance floor while others huddled over illegal gin at marble-topped tables. Catherine moved through them with practiced ease, her training allowing her to appear relaxed even as another wave of pain crashed through her midsection.

"Mrs. Castellano!"

Catherine's blood turned to ice. Tony Benedetto, Salvatore Maroni's lieutenant, emerged from the crowd with his gold-capped smile. "Leaving so soon?" Tony asked, his eyes scanning her face. There was something different in his expression tonight—sharper, more alert. "How did things go upstairs? The boss really took a shine to you. He always does with the ladies in your... condition." His gaze dropped meaningfully to her belly. "You're not the first expecting mother he's invited to his private study."

Catherine's face lit up with practiced delight, the kind of glow wealthy society women wore when discussing their conquests. "Oh, wonderfully! Your boss is such a charming man—so attentive, so passionate about everything." She pressed one hand to her stomach, letting a dreamy expression cross her features. "It's refreshing, really. My stupid husband was never so... engaged. Salvatore has such interesting stories, such worldly experiences."

Another contraction hit, stronger than before. She channeled the genuine discomfort into a delicate wince, the kind a pampered society lady might make. "Though I'm afraid this little one is being rather demanding tonight. All the excitement, perhaps."

Tony's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Not suspicion exactly, but a kind of focused attention that made Catherine's skin crawl. "Sal does have that effect on expecting mothers. Very... nurturing."

"Indeed," Catherine replied with a tinkling laugh that sounded like champagne glasses clinking. "Though I should probably head home before this baby decides to make any more demands. You know how it is."

A thin stream of fluid ran down her leg. “Oh no, not now, please stop”. She started to feel sweat running from her temple, sticking on her hair. Catherine paused her breath, praying Tony wouldn't notice.

Tony stepped closer, that unreadable expression still in his eyes. "Sal always says expecting mothers have a special... glow about them. Makes them more interesting to talk to." His voice carried an odd undertone. "You seem to have impressed him more than most."

Catherine tried to maintain her bright society smile, even as alarm bells rang in her head. "Well, I do try to be good company. A woman in my condition doesn't get many opportunities for stimulating conversation these days."

"Right," Tony said slowly. "Well, don't let me keep you. Drive safe—wouldn't want anything to happen to you or the little one."

She turned toward the exit with a gracious wave, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to run. More fluid leaked with each step, leaving tiny droplets on the marble between carpets. Behind her, she could feel Tony watching, but his footsteps weren't following.

Don't look back. Don't run. Walk like a lady who's had a delightful evening.

The front door seemed miles away through the crowd of revelers. Finally, she reached the entrance where the same two guards who had checked her invitation hours earlier stood watching the crowd.

"Evening, Mrs. Castellano," the larger one said, tipping his hat. "Hope you had a pleasant time."

"Quite lovely," she managed with another practiced smile. "Though I'm afraid I need to cut the evening short. This little one isn't being cooperative tonight." She patted her belly with motherly affection.

The guards chuckled knowingly and waved her through without a second glance.

Outside, she spotted her black Packard parked under a street lamp inside the event’s compound. Catherine walked to the car with measured steps, her society lady smile never wavering even as another contraction built like a rising tide. “Just a bit more. Just. A. Bit”

She fumbled for her keys with shaking hands, the pain making her fingers clumsy. The car door felt impossibly heavy as she pulled it open and slid behind the wheel. As she turned the ignition, a massive contraction seized her, and she gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white.

she gasped to her belly, her voice tight with pain and bitter affection. "Please give mommy a bit more time, sweetheart"

Behind her, shouts erupted from inside the building. Much sooner than she'd expected. She could hear men yelling Salvatore Maroni's name, car doors slamming.

"They found him," she whispered, gunning the engine. The Packard lurched forward as she pressed the accelerator, her hands trembling on the wheel. "Looks like you couldn't wait for a quiet exit either, could you, sweetheart?" she murmured to her unborn child, her voice mixing exhaustion with desperate tenderness. "Nine months of perfect timing, and now you want to steal the show."

The Packard's engine purred through the labyrinthine streets of South Side, each turn precisely calculated, each route memorized months in advance. Catherine had studied these roads like a scholar studies scripture—every alley, every shortcut, every possible escape path mapped and re-mapped until they lived in her muscle memory.

Behind her, the streets erupted in mechanical fury. Car engines roared to life from a dozen different directions, their headlights cutting through the night like angry eyes. Salvatore Maroni's men were spreading out across the streets in a desperate dragnet, but Catherine smiled grimly through another crushing contraction. They were chasing shadows. She had planned for this chaos, anticipated their panic, their predictable patterns of pursuit.

The beauty of her route lay in its simplicity—a series of residential streets that curved away from the criminal building in a gentle spiral, each turn taking her further from their search radius while appearing random to any observer. No straight lines, no obvious destinations, nothing they could predict or intercept. Her plan was perfect. Almost perfect. Almost

The only thing she hadn't planned for was the iron fist that seemed to be squeezing her entire midsection every few minutes, each contraction stronger than the last.

"Come on, sweetheart," she gasped between clenched teeth, one hand on the steering wheel, the other pressed against her belly. "Just hold on a little longer. Daddy's waiting for us, and then we can—"

Another contraction hit like a sledgehammer, and Catherine's foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The speedometer climbed as she raced through the empty streets, her breathing coming in sharp bursts. She could feel something shifting inside her, the baby dropping lower with each mile, each turn, each bump in the road.

The distant sound of engines was fading now, scattered across the city in futile pursuit. But the pressure between her legs was building, becoming impossible to ignore…

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Catherine had been driving for nearly two hours. By the time she reached the final stretch toward the suburb of Burnley, Catherine could barely focus on the road through the haze of pain. Sweat had soaked through her dress now—twice she'd had to pull over and breathe through the pain. But now it was different. Urgent. Final.

She spotted the designated meeting point—a small park overlooking the West River where her husband James would be waiting with a clean car and medical supplies. But as another massive contraction seized her, Catherine knew with crystal clarity that she wouldn't make it to those final three blocks.

The Packard lurched to a stop beneath a cluster of elm trees, hidden from the main road. Catherine's hands shook as she turned off the engine, then fumbled for the door handle. Each movement sent waves of agony through her body, but she forced herself out of the driver's seat and stumbled toward the back of the car.

The rear door felt impossibly heavy, but she managed to wrench it open and collapse onto the leather bench seat. There was no time for delicacy, no time for modesty. Catherine's hands found the delicate beadwork of her evening gown and tore at it with desperate strength, silk and sequins scattering across the car floor like fallen stars.

The fabric gave way with a satisfying rip, and suddenly her belly was free—enormous, pale, yet completely smooth with no sign of the strain of nine months' growth. Without the constraining silk, her abdomen seemed to expand even further, the skin stretched tight as a drum, blue veins visible beneath the surface like a roadmap of life itself.

Catherine struggled to position herself across the narrow bench, her back pressed against one door, her feet braced against the opposite window. The cramped space of the Packard's rear seat became her entire world as she spread her legs as wide as the confines would allow.

And then, for the first time in hours—perhaps for the first time in her entire life—Catherine Kyle let go of her perfect control.

“Nghhhhhh ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

The scream that tore from her throat was nothing like the refined voice that had charmed Salvatore Maroni. This was primal, raw, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of her being. It echoed through the car and out into the silent night, carrying with it all the pain and fear and desperate strength she had been holding inside.

Her body arched with the force of the contraction, every muscle straining, her face contorted in an expression of pure animal intensity. Sweat beaded on her forehead and ran down her cheeks, mixing with tears she didn't remember shedding. Her hands gripped the leather seat so hard her knuckles went white, and another guttural cry escaped her lips.

This was Catherine Kyle stripped of every pretense, every carefully constructed facade. Gone was the elegant wife who had sipped champagne and traded pleasantries with criminals. Gone was the cool-headed agent who had snapped a man's neck with surgical precision barely an hour ago. In her place was something far more elemental—a woman caught in the most fundamental act of human existence, her body doing what bodies had done for millennia, regardless of bullets or badges or carefully laid plans.

Her belly contracted again, the muscles rippling visibly beneath her skin like waves across water. The baby was coming whether the world was ready or not, and Catherine could only surrender to the inexorable force of biology, her body no longer her own but something ancient and powerful that knew exactly what it needed to do.

The night outside was surprisingly quiet and peaceful. Leaves fell down the path. Street lamps sparkling in the night mist. But inside the car, Catherine was beyond caring about that, beyond anything but the overwhelming need to push, to bring this new life into a world that seemed determined to tear everything apart.

The pressure was unbearable now, a burning, stretching sensation that consumed every nerve in Catherine's body. She could feel it—the baby's head, right there, pressing against her from the inside, demanding release. The knowledge should have been reassuring, but instead it filled her with a desperate urgency that made her heart race even faster.

Catherine pulled her knees toward her chest with trembling arms, her muscles screaming in protest as she forced her legs as wide as the cramped confines of the Packard would allow. The leather seat beneath her was slick with sweat and fluid, and she struggled to maintain her grip on her own legs as another contraction built like a gathering storm.

"Come on," she gasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Come on, baby, please..."

She bore down with everything she had, every ounce of strength and determination that had carried her through nine months of undercover work. The pressure intensified, and she felt the baby's head begin to emerge, stretching her beyond what seemed possible. For a moment—just a moment—she felt the crown of her child's head slip forward, and hope flared in her chest.

But then she had to breathe.

The instant she relaxed, the instant her muscles released their iron grip, she felt the baby's head slip back inside. The retreat was unmistakable, devastating, and Catherine's scream of frustration echoed through the car like a wounded animal.

"No! No, no, no!" she cried, panic flooding her system like ice water. "Please don't go back in! Please!"

She immediately bore down again, pulling her legs closer to her chest, straining until she saw stars. Again, the head emerged slightly, the burning stretch returning with renewed intensity. Again, she had to pause for breath. Again, the baby retreated.

"God, please," Catherine sobbed, her professional composure completely shattered. This wasn't like her training, wasn't like the careful control she'd maintained her entire adult life. Her body was betraying her, refusing to cooperate when she needed it most. "Stay out, please just stay out..."

The cycle repeated—push, emerge, retreat—until Catherine was gasping with exhaustion and terror. Each time the baby's head slipped back, she felt a piece of her confidence crumble. Each failed attempt brought her closer to complete panic.

She tried changing positions, bracing her feet against the car window differently, adjusting the angle of her hips. Nothing worked. The baby would crown for a few precious seconds, Catherine's heart would soar with relief, and then gravity and anatomy would conspire to pull her child back into the darkness.

"Why won't you come out?" she whispered desperately, looking down at her enormous belly for the first time with something she'd never felt before—genuine fear. Not the calculated risk assessment of an agent in the field, but the raw, primal terror of a woman whose body seemed to be failing her at the most crucial moment.

Her belly looked impossibly large from this angle, stretched, distorted, and tight. She could see the baby moving beneath the surface, restless and trapped, as desperate to escape as she was to deliver. The sight that had once filled her with wonder now seemed alien, frightening.

Catherine Kyle—who had walked into a den of killers without flinching, who had taken lives with her bare hands, who had maintained perfect composure under the most extreme pressure—was terrified. For the first time in her adult life, she was facing something she couldn't control, couldn't manipulate, couldn't overcome through skill or training or sheer force of will.

"I can't do this," she whispered, the admission torn from her like a confession. "I can't... I don't know how..."

Another contraction built, and she had no choice but to try again. She pulled her legs up, bore down with everything she had left, felt the familiar stretch and burn as the head emerged once more. This time she held her breath as long as she could, trying to maintain the pressure, trying to keep the baby from retreating.

But her lungs burned, her vision blurred, and when she finally gasped for air, she felt that devastating slip backward once again.

Catherine's scream this time was pure anguish, a sound that came from a place deeper than pain, deeper than fear. It was the cry of someone pushed beyond their breaking point, someone who had run out of options and was staring into an abyss of their own making. She was trapped in this leather-and-steel prison with her own failing body, locked in a battle she didn't know how to win.

The woman who had never met a problem she couldn't solve was drowning in her own helplessness, and for the first time in her life, Catherine wasn't sure she was strong enough to survive what came next.

"James!" Catherine's voice cracked as she screamed his name into the darkness, desperation making her sound like a lost child. "James, where are you? I need you! Please, I need you!"

The silence that followed was deafening except for her ragged breathing and the distant sound of the West River lapping against its banks. Another contraction was building, and Catherine felt herself breaking apart, fragmenting into pieces she didn't know how to put back together.

"JAMES!" she screamed again, her voice raw and primal. "Please! I can't—I can't do this alone!"

The baby's head pressed against her again, that familiar burning stretch, but this time Catherine barely had the strength to push. Her body felt like it was giving up, her spirit crushed by the endless cycle of hope and failure.

Then—like salvation itself—she heard the purr of an engine cutting through the night.

Headlights swept across the trees, and Catherine's heart leaped as she recognized the familiar rumble of James's Buick. The car pulled up beside her Packard, and suddenly the night was filled with the sound of car doors slamming and running footsteps.

"Catherine! My God, Catherine!"

When James appeared at the rear door of the Packard, Catherine dissolved completely. All the strength that had carried her through the mission, through the escape, through the endless nightmare of labor, simply evaporated. She was no longer Agent Catherine Kyle—she was just a woman in agony, crying for her husband.

"It hurts," she sobbed, reaching for him with trembling hands. "Oh God, James, it hurts so bad. I can't get the baby out. It keeps going back in, and I don't know what to do, and I'm so scared—"

James's face went white at the sight of her—his elegant, unflappable wife reduced to tears and desperation, her torn evening gown revealing the full magnitude of her struggle. But his hands were steady as they found hers, his voice strong and sure in a way that made her heart clench with relief.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he said, climbing into the car beside her, his large frame filling the cramped space. "I'm here, Cat. I’m here with you. Always”. The masculine yet soothing voice of James filled Catherine’s ears like the voice from an angel. “You're not alone anymore. You're the strongest woman I know, and we're going to do this together."

Catherine cried harder at his words, but they were different tears now—tears of relief, of gratitude, of love so fierce it took her breath away. "I tried so hard," she whispered. "I tried to be strong, but—"

"You are strong," James interrupted, his hands moving to cradle her face. "Look what you did tonight. You completed the mission, you escaped, you drove yourself here while in labor. You're incredible, sweetheart. Now let me help you bring our baby into the world."

Baby. The word sent a thrill through Catherine's exhausted body. Another contraction began to build, and James immediately shifted into position, his hands gentle but sure as he helped adjust her legs. "When the next one comes, I want you to push with everything you've got, and I'll guide the baby's head. Don't stop pushing until I tell you to, no matter how much it hurts. Can you do that for me?"

Catherine nodded, gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles went white. "Don't leave me."

"Never," he promised, his voice fierce with love and determination. "We're in this together."

The contraction peaked, and Catherine bore down with renewed strength, fueled not just by her own will but by James's unwavering presence beside her. She felt the familiar stretch and burn as the baby's head emerged, but this time James's hands were there, steady and sure.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice tight with emotion. "I can see her head. She's beautiful, Catherine. Keep pushing, don't stop—"

The pain was still excruciating, perhaps even worse than before, but somehow it felt different with James there. Manageable. Shared. When the urge to stop and breathe became overwhelming, his voice pulled her through it.

"I've got her head," James said, wonder creeping into his voice. "One more big push for the shoulders, sweetheart. You can do this."

Catherine summoned every ounce of strength she had left, every reserve of determination that had carried her through years of dangerous work. But now she wasn't pushing for the Bureau, or for justice, or for the mission. She was pushing for the family they were about to become, for the daughter who was fighting just as hard to be born.

With a final, earth-shattering effort, Catherine felt her baby slip free in a rush of warmth and relief so profound she thought she might faint. The sudden absence of pressure was shocking, overwhelming, like awakening from a nightmare into bright daylight.

And then—the most beautiful sound in the world.

A baby's cry, strong and indignant, filled the car and spilled out into the night. James' hands were gentle as he lifted their child, and when Catherine saw it for the first time—tiny, perfect, furiously alive—she began to cry all over again.

"It’s a girl”,James whispered, “She's perfect," his own voice thick with tears as he placed the baby on Catherine's chest. "She's absolutely perfect."

Catherine cradled her daughter against her skin, feeling the tiny heart beating rapidly against her own. After nine months of partnership, of shared missions and shared secrets, they were finally meeting face to face.

"Hello, little one," Catherine whispered, her voice soft with wonder. "You certainly know how to make an entrance."

The baby's cries quieted at the sound of her mother's voice, and Catherine felt a peace she hadn't known in months settle over her. The mission was over. The danger had passed. And here, in the backseat of her car under the stars, their family had officially begun.

—------------------------------------------------------

The baby settled against Catherine's chest with a soft sigh, her tiny fingers curled around a strand of her mother's hair. In the gentle glow of the car's dome light, Catherine could see every perfect detail—the delicate eyelashes, the rosebud mouth, the way her daughter's nose wrinkled slightly in sleep.

"She's extraordinary," Catherine whispered, unable to take her eyes off the miracle in her arms.

James smiled, his hand gentle as he stroked the baby's downy head. "She gets that from her mother. Speaking of which—" He looked at Catherine with pride shining in his eyes. "The mission was flawless. Absolutely flawless. Salvatore Maroni never saw it coming."

Catherine's face lit up with professional satisfaction, even in her exhausted state. "Nine months of preparation, and it worked exactly as planned. Well, almost exactly." She glanced down at their daughter with a rueful smile. "With Salvatore Maroni eliminated, the entire Maroni network will crumble within weeks. The Bureau will be able to roll up their entire operation."

"But?" James knew his wife well enough to hear the concern in her voice.

Catherine's expression grew serious. "The intelligence I gathered from Salvatore Maroni... There are other names. Smaller families, but growing. The Vitis are expanding their smuggling operations, and there's a family called Falcones that's been quietly building power in the dock districts. And not only families, but lone, young gangsters. I remember seeing names like Cobblepot or Sionis"

James nodded thoughtfully. "They're small now, but in a city like this..."

"Exactly. We should consider taking action before they grow too large to contain." Catherine shifted the baby slightly, her maternal instincts and professional mind working in parallel. "Crime in Gotham is like a hydra—cut off one head, and two more appear."

"Gotham's a big city," James said with a sigh. "Crime will always thrive here. We can never really rest, can we?"

Catherine was quiet for a moment, then smiled as the baby made a small sound in her sleep. "Speaking of rest, we should think about getting home. This little one needs proper care."

"About that," James said, his eyes twinkling. "I got a message from my mother before I came to find you. She wanted to congratulate us, and she's sent some... unusual baby gifts."

"Unusual how?"

"A litter of newborn kittens. Born tonight, just hours before our daughter. She thought it was fate—that they should grow up together."

Catherine laughed, the sound mixing exhaustion with genuine delight. "Kittens? Your mother certainly has interesting ideas about appropriate baby gifts."

"Well. She loves you. She started to raise cats when she knew how much you love them. And she wants to pass that tradition to our baby."

"And if she hates them instead?"

James grinned. "Then we'll have a house full of very disappointed kittens."

Catherine looked down at their sleeping daughter, her expression growing contemplative. "I hope she'll be strong like us, James. Strong enough to handle whatever this world throws at her. But I don't know if that kind of strength is a gift or a curse."

"Both, probably," James said softly. "The best gifts usually are."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts about the future, about the country they'd sworn to protect, about the tiny person who would grow up in the shadows of 's endless struggle between order and chaos.

"So," James said eventually, "we never did settle on a name if it was a girl."

Catherine smiled, running her finger along the baby's cheek. "Actually, I've been thinking about that for weeks but never came to an answer. But there's something perfect about tonight—the way she chose her moment, the way she fought to be born, the way she already seems so... independent. All in this destiny night"

"What are you thinking?"

"Selina," Catherine said softly. "Selina Kyle. It just sounds—mysterious, powerful, beautiful, like the darkness."

James tested the name quietly. "Selina Kyle." He nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "It's perfect. Strong but elegant. Independent but not lonely."

"She'll make her own path in this world," Catherine murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Selina's forehead. "Whatever that path might be."

As if responding to her name, baby Selina stretched slightly in her mother's arms, one tiny hand reaching up toward the car's ceiling, fingers spread like small claws grasping at the stars visible through the window.

In the distance, the lights of Gotham City twinkled like fallen stars, and somewhere in those shadowy streets, the next generation of both heroes and villains was already being born. But for now, in this moment, there was only love, hope, and the promise of tomorrow held safe in a mother's arms.

The Kyle family was complete, and Gotham would never be quite the same.

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