And as the first trimester had become the second, Stratton continued to spiral downward, no longer able to pay me a million dollars a month. But I’d been expecting that, so I’d taken it in stride. Besides, I still had Biltmore and Monroe Parker, and they were each paying me one million per deal. And further cushioning the blow was Steve Madden Shoes. Steve and I could hardly keep up with all the department-store orders, and the program Elliot had laid out was working like a charm. We had five stores now and plans to open five more over the next twelve months. We were also starting to license our name, initially with belts and handbags and moving on to sportswear. And most importantly, Steve was learning to delegate authority and we were well on the way to building a first-class management team. About six months ago, Gary Deluca, aka the Drizzler, had finally convinced us to move our warehouse to South Florida, and it had turned out to be a fine idea. And John Basile, aka the Spitter, was so busy trying to keep up with our department-store orders that his spit storms were becoming less and less frequent.

Meanwhile, the Cobbler was making money hand over fist—although not from Steve Madden Shoes. Instead, it was coming from the rathole game, with Steve Madden Shoes representing his future. But that was fine with me. After all, Steve and I had become the closest of friends and were spending most of our free time together. On the other hand, Elliot had succumbed once more to his drug addiction—sliding deeper and deeper into debt and depression.

At the beginning of the Duchess’s third trimester I had my back operated on, but the procedure was unsuccessful—leaving me in worse shape than before. Perhaps I deserved it, though, because I had gone against the advice of Dr. Green, electing to have a local doctor (of dubious reputation) perform a minimally invasive procedure called a percutaneous disk extraction. The pain going down my left leg was excruciating and ceaseless. My only solace, of course, was Quaaludes, which I was always quick to point out to the Duchess, who was becoming increasingly annoyed at my constant slurring and frequent blackouts.

Nevertheless, she had fallen so deeply into the role of the codependent wife that she, too, no longer knew which way was up. And with all the money and the help and the mansions and the yacht and the sucking up at every department store and restaurant or wherever else we went, it was easy to pretend things were okay.

Just then, a terrible burning sensation under my nose— smelling salts!

My head immediately popped up, and there was the delivering Duchess, her gigantic pussy staring at me with contempt.

“Are you okay?” asked Dr. Bruno.

I took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, I’m zine, Dr. Bruno. I just got a little bit queasy zromthe blood. I need a splash some water on my face.” I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, did two blasts of coke, and ran back to the delivery room, feeling like a new man. “Okay,” I said, no longer slurring. “Let’s go, Nae! Don’t give up now!”

“I’ll deal with you later,” she snapped.

And then she began to push, and then she screamed, and then she pushed some more, and then she grit her teeth, and then suddenly, as if by magic, her vagina opened up to the size of a Volkswagen and— pop!—out came my son’s head, with a thin coating of dark black hair. Next came a gush of water and then a moment later a tiny shoulder. Dr. Bruno grasped my son’s torso and twisted him gently, and just like that he was out.

Then I heard, “ Waaaaahhhhhhhh…”

“Ten fingers and ten toes!” said a happy Dr. Bruno, placing the baby on the Duchess’s fat stomach. “You have a name yet?”

“Yes,” said the fat, beaming Duchess. “Carter. Carter James Belfort.”

“That’s a very fine name,” said Dr. Bruno.

In spite of my little mishap, Dr. Bruno was kind enough to allow me to cut the cord, and I did a good job. Having now earned his trust, he said, “Okay, it’s time for Daddy to hold his son while I finish up with Mommy.” With that, Dr. Bruno handed me my son.

I felt myself welling up with tears. I had a son. A boy!A baby Wolf of Wall Street! Chandler had been such a beautiful baby, and now I would get my first look at the beautiful face of my son. I looked down and—what the hell? He looked awful! He was tiny and scrunched up, and his eyes were glued shut. He looked like an underfed chicken.

The Duchess must’ve seen the look on my face, and she said, “Don’t worry, honey. Most babies aren’t born looking like Chandler. He’s just a little premature. He’ll be as handsome as his daddy.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll look just like his mommy,” I replied, meaning every word. “But I don’t care what he looks like. I already love him so much I wouldn’t care if he had a nose the size of a banana.” As I looked at my son’s perfect, scrunched-up face, I realized there had to be a God, because this couldn’t possibly be an accident. It was a miracle to create this perfect little creature from an act of love.

I stared at him for what seemed like a very long time, until Dr. Bruno said, “Oh, Jesus, she’s hemorrhaging. Get the operating room ready now! And get an anesthesiologist in here!” The nurse took off like a bat out of hell.

Dr. Bruno regained his composure and calmly said, “Okay, Nadine, we have a slight complication. You have placenta accreta. What that means, honey, is that your placenta has grown too deeply into the uterine wall. Unless we can get it out manually, you could lose a great deal of blood. Now, Nadine, I’m gonna do everything possible to get it out clean”—he paused, as if trying to find the right words—“but if I can’t, I’ll have no choice but to perform a hysterectomy.”

And before I even had a chance to tell my wife I loved her, two orderlies came running in and grabbed her bed and wheeled her out. Dr. Bruno followed. When he reached the door, he turned to me and said, “I’ll do everything possible to save her uterus.” Then he walked out, leaving Carter and me alone.

I looked down at my son, and I started to cry. What would happen if I lost the Duchess? How could I possibly raise two children without her? She was everything to me. The very insanity of my life depended on her making everything okay. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I had to be strong for my son, for Carter James Belfort. Without even realizing it I found myself rocking him in my arms, saying a silent prayer to the Almighty, asking him to spare the Duchess and to bring her back to me whole.

Ten minutes later Dr. Bruno came back into the room. With a great smile on his face, he said, “We got the placenta out, and you’ll never believe how.”

“How?” I said, grinning from ear to ear.

“We called in one of our interns, a tiny Indian girl, who has the most slender hands imaginable. She was able to reach up inside your wife’s womb and manually pull out the placenta. It was a miracle, Jordan. A placenta accreta is very rare, and it’s very dangerous. But it’s fine now. You have a perfectly healthy wife and a perfectly healthy son.”

And such were the famous last words of Dr. Bruno, the King of Jinxes.

CHAPTER 31

THE JOY OF PARENTHOOD

The next morning, Chandler and I were alone in the master bedroom, engaged in a heated debate. I was doing most of the talking, while she was sitting on the floor, playing with multicolored wooden blocks. I was trying to convince her that the new addition to the family would be a good thing for her, that things would be even better than before.

I smiled at the baby genius and said, “Listen, thumbkin, he’s so cute and little, you’re gonna fall in love with him the second you see him. And just think how much fun he’ll be when he gets older; you’ll be able to boss him around all the time! It’s gonna be great!”