“What’s wrong?!” I shouted.
My brother looked up at me with the most fear I’d seen on his face since the night the Turk had held Alessandra at gunpoint. “I think she’s going into labor.”
Alessandra was only seven months pregnant.
And with Cesare and Lucrezia out there, waiting –
Christ, this couldn’t have come at a worse time!
“I’ll call an ambulance,” I said calmly as I pulled out my phone.
“To take her where – San Luca?!” Dario said incredulously, naming the only small hospital nearby.
I understood why he was objecting:
San Luca was where Papa had died.
There was probably nothing they could have done for him – after all, they didn’t know he had been poisoned –
But in our family, ‘San Luca’ had become synonymous with incompetence.
That wasn’t fair, obviously, but there was no denying that San Luca was tiny and ill-prepared for anything but the most routine issues.
However, San Luca was ten minutes away. Florence was an hour.
“If she needs immediate attention – ” I started.
“I need Dr. Aiello!” Alessandra wailed in a panic.
Dr. Aiello was the obstetrician who’d been treating her the last six months.
Lars dropped to his knees beside Alessandra. I knew he had basic emergency medical training from his time in Special Forces, but I doubted that extended to pregnant women.
“Does it hurt all the time?” he asked her gently.
“A little, but the bad pain comes and goes.”
“How long between?”
“Every couple of minutes.”
Lars looked at Dario. “She’s probably having contractions.”
“She has preeclampsia,” Dario rasped.
No one had known but him, Alessandra, and me.
Lars and Rachel looked at each other in alarm.
“Then we need to go now,” Lars said. “Massimo, pick her up.”
“I can carry her,” Dario protested.
“I know, but I need you free and clear of her,” Lars said.
Dario went silent, understanding exactly what he meant:
If someone takes a shot at you, I don’t want you both to get hit.
