“Is the baby okay?” My voice cracks, fear seizing me. I can’t lose Luca and my baby too.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Dr. Clark says gently as someone knocks on the door and a woman pops her head in with a portable ultrasound machine.
“I’m going to do your ultrasound,” she tells me as Dr. Clark leaves the room. She squirts icy gel on my stomach, and I stare at the monitor, barely breathing as she moves the wand across my skin.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but gray static and shapes I can’t identify.
Then—
“There.” The technician points, and I see it. A tiny flicker on the screen, barely visible. “That’s the heartbeat. Strong and steady.”
I burst into tears.
“Your baby is approximately seven weeks along,” she continues, her voice warm but she hands me a tissue. “Heartbeat is 150 beats per minute, which is excellent. No signs of distress despite the trauma you’ve experienced. You’re very fortunate, Ms. Conti.”
“Mrs. Marchetti,” I correct through my tears. I’m crying so hard I can barely see the screen anymore, but I can’t look away from that flickering light. “It’s Mrs. Marchetti now.”
Our baby.Luca’sbaby. The tiny life we created together, surviving against all odds.
He has to wake up. He has to be okay because I can’t do this alone. I can’t raise this baby without him.
“Please,” I beg the technician, even though I know she can’t help me. “Please, I need to see my husband. I need to be with him.”
“He’s in surgery,” she says gently. “It could be hours. You should rest?—”
“I’m not resting.” I sit up, ignoring the way the movement pulls at my stitches, sending pain radiating through my chest. “I need to be there when he wakes up.”
Dr. Clark appears in the doorway. From his expression, I know he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. “Mrs. Marchetti, your husband’s injuries are extensive. Three gunshot wounds, broken ribs, significant blood loss. He’s going to be in surgery for quite some time, and then in recovery. The best thing you can do right now is let us finish treating you and get some rest.”
“I’m not leaving him.” The words come out fierce and absolute. “I don’t care what you say. I’m staying.”
Dr. Clark sighs, clearly recognizing a losing battle when he sees one. “At least let us get you cleaned up and into a proper room,” he says wearily, running a hand over his face. “You need fluids, antibiotics, and monitoring.” He gives me a piercing look. “Your babyneeds you healthy.”
Dammit. The mention of the baby is what makes me agree. For the baby, I’ll cooperate. For the baby, I’ll let them poke and prod and pump me full of whatever medicines they think I need.
But I’m not leaving this hospital. And the moment Luca is out of surgery, I’m going to be by his side.
They put me in a recovery room on the fourth floor. It’s private and quiet, decorated in soothing blues and grays that do nothing to soothe the terror clawing at my chest. An IV drips steadily into my arm—fluids and antibiotics, they said. My wound has been re-bandaged, my vitals checked and recorded.
And I’m going fuckinginsane.
Every minute that passes is another minute I don’t know if Luca is alive or dead. Every footstep in the hallway makes me think it’s a doctor coming to tell me terrible news. Every page over the intercom sounds like a code for “patient in OR deceased.”
Danny appears in my doorway after several hours. He looks haggard, exhausted, his usually neat suit rumpled and stained with blood.Luca’sblood.
“Any news?” I ask before he can speak, my heart in my throat.
He shakes his head. “Still in surgery. Viktor’s got his best people making sure the surgeons have everything they need.” He hesitates. “They’re bringing in a specialist for the shoulder reconstruction.”
Shoulder reconstruction. That sounds bad. That sounds like permanent damage. My heart monitor picks up.
“He’s going to be okay,” Danny says quickly, eyeing the monitor, but I can hear the uncertainty beneath the confidence. “The boss is tough. He’s survived worse.”
“Has he?” I ask, not really buying Danny’s excuse. “Has he really survived being shot multiple times while fighting a man who wanted him dead?”
Danny’s expression softens. “No,” he sighs. “But he’s survived a lot. And he’s got something to fight for now that he didn’t have before.”
“What’s that?”
