She touches the top of the folder, the closest thing to a reassuring pat without putting a hand on me, and slips out.
The room is quiet again except for the drip in the sink. I put the papers in my bag, zip the pocket, then unzip it to look one more time because seeing the letters makes it more real somehow than hearing it.
Positive.
I press my knuckles to my mouth and breathe until the sting in my eyes backs off. Not now. Not in a hospital hallway with his family a floor up.
Is Roberto already back upstairs? Or is he standing in the donor room, a square of gauze on his arm, scanning the room for me?
I stand. My legs threaten to give, but they manage to hold me. I straighten my blouse and smooth my hair with a quick pass of my hand. The mirror over the sink shows a woman I barely recognize—pale, eyes a little too bright. I splash water on my wrists, pat them dry with a thin paper towel, and gathermyself, prepared to walk to the waiting room without giving myself away.
The side corridor is empty. I follow the exit signs and come out near the elevators, not the donor desk. The doors ping and open. I step in and watch the numbers climb.
On three, the hall hum returns—phones, wheels, low voices. I tuck the papers deeper into my bag and pull my sleeve down more securely, so no one notices the lack of gauze, and walk back toward the surgical waiting area.
I see them before they see me—Caterina leaning into Bianca’s shoulder, Luca in quiet conversation with Elena, Vito on the phone near the window. Roberto stands a few feet away from the cluster, gaze on the ICU doors like he can will them to open.
I stop just short of the chairs and pull in a breath that doesn’t wobble.
One thing at a time. Upstairs first. Antonio first. I will not make a scene in the middle of this hall. I will not say anything I can’t unsay.
Caterina spots me and pushes up, relief loosening her face. “There you are,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“I needed more screening,” I say, keeping my tone easy. “Everything’s fine.”
“I’m glad,” she says. She squeezes my hand.
It’s a lie. Everything isn’t fine.
I nod and let her lead me back to the row of chairs. Across the room, Roberto’s eyes lift. They find me. They hold for a beat. There’s a question in them, and I answer with the smallest shake of my head—later. Please.
He gives the slightest nod and looks back to the doors.
I sit. I put both feet on the floor. I take the bottle of water Bianca nudges into my hand and twist the cap. My heart is loud in my ears. I drink. I keep my breathing steady. I watch the hallway with everyone else and wait for the next piece of news.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Roberto
They take us back two at a time, through a set of double doors that whoosh shut like they’re sealing a vault. The ICU is colder than the waiting area and bright enough to hurt the eyes.
Everything is glass, monitors, tubing, stainless steel. I step in and pause a beat because my body needs that one second to adjust to seeing my brother as a patient.
Antonio lies in the bed, propped just a little, pale under the harsh light. A tube tapes his mouth. The ventilator pushes and releases with a steady sigh, numbers marching green on black.
His chest rises under a warmed blanket. A clear line runs into his neck—central access. Wide plastic drains lie flat against the right side of his abdomen, exiting near a clean dressing. There’s a blood pressure cuff around his left arm, an arterial line at his wrist, and the soft beep of the heart monitor tapping out arhythm I memorize.
Luca stops at the foot of the bed and goes still, fists tight at his sides. He looks bigger when he’s angry, not from puffing up but from the way everything inside him locks into one direction.
I move to the other side and rest my hand against the cool rail. Up close, I count the details like a lawyer in an evidentiary review because that’s how I keep from losing the thread.
The right upper quadrant dressing is clean; the drainage bulbs show dark red but are not filling fast. The chart at the end of the bed lists meds: antibiotics, fluids, pressors titrated low, pain control. His vitals are steady. Dr. Patel did what she said she would do.
Luca clears his throat, rough. “He hates hospitals.”
“He’ll hate this one properly when he wakes up,” I say quietly. “He’ll complain the food’s bad and there’s nothing worth watching.”
The corner of Luca’s mouth twitches like he wants to agree and can’t get there. He steps closer to the head of the bed and studies Antonio’s face.
