CHAPTER 18
Valentina
The hospital room was too bright, too white, too sterile.
I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of monitors, my body feeling heavy and disconnected like I was floating slightly above the bed. The IV tugged at my hand when I tried to move. Everything hurt in a distant, muffled way—like pain happening to someone else.
Where am I?
Memory crashed back in fragments. The panic room. The livestream. Marco's cutting torch eating through steel. Alessio appearing like salvation. The fight. SWAT. Marco being dragged away in cuffs.
Then… nothing.
I'd collapsed. Right there in Alessio's arms while he was still bleeding from the ambush.
Alessio.
Panic spiked through the fog. Where was he? Was he okay? They'd separated us, taken him somewhere for treatment—
"Ms. DeLuca?" A nurse appeared at my bedside, young and kind-faced. "You're awake. Good. How are you feeling?"
"Where's Alessio? The man who was with me—is he okay?"
"He's being treated. Cracked ribs, head laceration, and various contusions. He'll be fine." She checked my IV and made notes on a tablet. "But right now, let's focus on you. Any pain? Nausea? Dizziness?"
"I'm fine. I just need to see him—"
"The doctor will be in shortly. She has some information to discuss with you first."
Something in her tone made my stomach clench. The careful neutrality healthcare workers used when delivering news—good or bad—made their voices sound exactly the same.
What's wrong? What did they find?
The nurse left. I lay there staring at the ceiling tiles, counting them obsessively because focusing on something concrete kept the panic at bay.
Forty-seven tiles. Forty-eight if you counted the partial one by the door.
Footsteps in the hallway. Multiple sets. Voices discussing patient charts, medication schedules, and the mundane chaos of a busy ER.
None of them was Alessio's voice.
I needed to see him. Needed to confirm with my own eyes that he was alive, whole, safe. My hands clenched in the sheets, and the IV tugged again—a sharp reminder I was tethered here, couldn't just get up and find him.
The door opened.
A doctor entered—thirty-something, dark hair pulled back, tired but professional. Her badge read Dr. Lida Chao, OB-GYN.
OB-GYN.
My heart stopped.
"Ms. DeLuca." She pulled up a chair, sat at eye level with practiced bedside manner. "I'm Dr. Chao. I've been reviewing your labs and ultrasound results."
"Ultrasound?" My voice came out thin. "Why did you do an ultrasound?"
"Standard protocol for any woman of childbearing age presenting with your symptoms." She pulled up images on her tablet and turned it toward me. "Ms. DeLuca, you're pregnant. Approximately eight weeks."
The world tilted sideways.
