One Month Later
Emilia
The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway are a buzzing haze as I finally clock out, my legs heavy with exhaustion. I bite back a yawn and stretch my arms over my head as I walk down the halls, already daydreaming of my bed. I haven’t slept in what feels like ages, and I imagine I look like a zombie, feel every bit like one too.
I blink against the bright lights, fighting the urge to find a corner and simply curl into a ball for the next fifty years. It’s been a brutal shift, and the idea of dropping where I stand sounds better and better the longer I think about it.
Still, it wouldn’t be a good look for the hospital to have one of their doctors balled up on the floor in some corner, napping. I just need to hold on a little longer, then I’ll have the next twelve hours all to myself.
With another yawn I don’t bother concealing, I drag myself to the nurses’ station. My eyes light up when I spot my favorite nurse holding a mug of coffee, complete with a fragrant promise of temporary relief. I shuffle forward, and the closer I get, the scent of the dark brew awakens my senses a little. I grab the mug from her and take a tentative sip, the bitter liquid hitting my tongue and jolting me. It's hot, and I wince slightly,but I already feel better. Even if it’s just the familiar ritual tricking my brain into waking up.
“Hmm,” I moan, risking another sip, careful not to scald my tongue this time. I close my eyes and savor the coffee, groaning as it hits all the right spots.
“Don’t you dare empty that mug, Doctor Conti!”
“Huh?”
I look up with a tired smile to find the nurse glaring at the coffee in my hands before lifting her narrowed eyes to mine. Betty has the kind of eyes that press patients and doctors alike into submission, but she doesn't scare me. Much. Being raised by an Italian mother who worked for Italian mobsters will leave one pretty fearless.
“Your coffee tastes the best,” I say, my voice a little raspy, so I take another sip. “I’ll bring you some of my mother’s famous desserts to make up for it.”
She must read the exhaustion on my face as her brows knit with concern. “How long have you been on shift?”
"I don't even know," I say with a yawn. "My shift's over though. I think I'll just head home and catch some sleep—" The vibration in my pocket cuts me off, so I reach into my white coat for my phone, smiling when I see my mother’s name flash on the screen. She’s probably calling to invite me home for the weekend. “Speak of the devil. I have to take this, Betty. See you on my next shift.”
“Hey, my coffee…never mind. You probably need it more,” she says, waving me off.
“I’ll return the mug later,” I call out as I walk away, taking another sip even as I answer my mother's call. "Ciao, Mama, I'm just finishing my shift—”
“Emilia, we need you!”
The panic in her voice sends me grinding to a halt. "Mama, what's wrong?"
"It's… Oh God, I can't tell you over the phone,mia cara. Come to the estate. Hurry, please, and bring your medical bag."
“Why, what happened? Mama!” I call out, but she’s already hung up. I dial her number again, but it sends me straight to voicemail. I dial my brother’s number, but that too sends me straight to voicemail. Panic swells in my chest as I hurry down the hallway.
She probably cut herself in the kitchen, I try to convince myself. My mother isn't fond of hospitals and only goes when either Luca or I bully her into doing so. She probably hurt herself in the kitchen and is being stubborn about coming to the emergency room. But she said “we.”
We need you.
Is it Luca? Is my twin hurt? It can't be the Rossis—they have an in-house family doctor. But what if…
I race to the physicians’ locker room and grab my bag, not bothering to change out of my scrubs. I dial my brother's number again as I hurry outside, but I’m sent back to voicemail. I consider calling one of the Rossi brothers but decide against it—Mama will explain everything when I get there.
The cab ride to the Rossi estate feels endless. Every red light, every slow driver, every tourist crossing against the signal—I want to scream at all of them. It takes nearly forty minutes to reach the gated property tucked in the wealthy suburbs just outside the city, and by the time we pull up the long driveway, I'm in full panic mode. The front door flies open and my mother, a small woman with dark hair tied back in a tight bun, runsoutside, my brother in tow. Relief gives way to annoyance before it quickly morphs back into panic when I spot the blood on my mother's apron.
“Mama!” I call out as I reach her. “What happened to you?”
“It’s not mine,” she says, grappling for my wrist. "Come, cara. It's Antonio. He needs your help. Your bag?"
“I have it.”
Luca falls into step beside me as Mama drags me up the familiar stone steps and through the front door. I've walked these halls my entire life, played hide and seek in these rooms as a child, but I don't register any of it now as we race through the house toward the kitchen.
The first thing I notice is Leonardo's panicked face and then the blood on his hands. The next is Matteo kneeling on the kitchen floor with his hands and clothes bloody.
And then there’s Antonio.
