He leans down and presses the tenderest kiss on my forehead. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
There’s a mechanical buzz, and I’m lifted into a sitting position in the bed. I moan as my head throbs in protest.
Gentle hands brush my hair back, and I know it’s him, even with my eyes closed.
When I open my eyes, the doctor is there. Actually, there are two doctors, unless I’m seeing double. I blink to clear my vision, and one of them moves closer to the bed.
“I’m Dr. Reese Albans, your neurologist, Gina. This is Dr. Johnathon Moretti”—he points to the other doctor—“and we are both in charge of your care.”
I want to ask what happened to me, but a wave of nausea hits me, and I need to focus on not puking instead.
“You’ve been healing well, and now that you’re awake, we’ll do a full examination once you’ve had a bit more time to rest. But before we get to all that”—Dr. Albans glances at the man at my bedside—“do you know who this man is?”
There’s an expectant look on his face, telling me that I should know who he is.
I turn my head slowly to look at the man beside my bed. My battered brain notices details I hadn’t when I first saw him. He’s unbelievably tall and broad, strong and dangerous, especially if the scars lacing the tops of his large hands are any indication.
Even with those scars, though, I don’t feel fear when looking at him. However, tears fill my eyes as I answer the doctor’s question, “No.”
More pain coats his features before a resolute determination replaces it. This is a man who gets what he wants, and that thought still doesn’t stir any alarm within me.
“Who is he?” I ask Dr. Moretti without looking away from the fierce man.
“Tommaso Santoro.” He pauses, as if giving me time to recognize the name. “Your husband.”
There’s a war of conflicting emotions within me at those two words. Denial and confusion, along with hope and love.
I look down at my hand resting on top of the bed. On my ring finger sits a large diamond set in a band shaped like two olivebranches twined together. There’s a matching band that goes with it.
The bed dips as Tommaso sits down and gently takes my hand. I see that he’s wearing a simple, understated band on his ring finger, and on his other hand is a larger ring with a crest of some kind. Lifting my hand to his mouth, he presses a kiss to each of my fingertips.
Intertwining our hands, he says, “Welcome back,il mio sole. My wife.”
Chapter 17
Tommaso
SilvioandMarcoforceme out of the room as Johnathon and Reese check Gina over. In the last few days, she’s had multiple CT scans, blood tests, and neurological tests while she remained unconscious. She’s on medication to prevent a seizure, to keep her intracranial blood pressure low, plus whatever they can give her for pain management that won’t be contraindicated for managing a subdural hematoma.
A fucking subdural hematoma. She could’ve died…probably would have if I hadn’t gotten her to the hospital when I did.
Thankfully, she didn’t need brain surgery, and Reese assures me that the hematoma is small and stable, so she should have a full recovery.
Except…
She doesn’t know who I am.
Based on her confusion and her not even knowing who she was when she started to wake up previously, Reese warned me that she could have amnesia. But now that she’s fully awake with amnesia, it’s like shrapnel to my guts.
I had gotten her rings made on rush order—the jeweler had worked non-stop. I wanted that symbol on her finger, reinforcing to any staff who had been cleared to be part of her medical team that she was my wife. And when Gina was fully lucid, I wanted to convince her to marry me as soon as possible.
But with her amnesia, the ring plays a different, even more important role in my plan as I quickly pivot.
I’m standing outside of her room, watching through the window, refusing to take my eyes off her, while Reese and Johnathon check her over. She’s not in the ICU, but in a separate, private room that has nursing staff with her twenty-four-seven, constantly monitoring her. She’s been admitted to the hospital under the name Sól Vita.
Sólis the Norse sun goddess, andVitais Italian for life. She is a goddess, she is my sun, and she is my life.
Marco rests a hand on my shoulder. “She might not remember you, but her heart does.”
