I don’t know what to do with that.
St. Vincent’s Private Hospital is everything North Malus wasn’t. The building is modern and gleaming, all glass and steel and clean lines. The parking area for ambulances is covered and well-lit. When the doors open, Cristiano is already there to help me out of the ambulance.
We’re met by a team of nurses and a doctor who introduces himself as Dr. Okafor, the head of pediatric hepatology.
“We have a private room ready,” he says, walking briskly beside Leon’s stretcher as they wheel him inside. “I’ve reviewed the records from North Malus. We’ll run our own tests to confirm the diagnosis and start evaluating transplant options immediately.”
Everything moves smoothly. Efficiently. No one asks me to fill out insurance forms. No one mentions coverage issues or out-of-pocket costs. Blissfully, there’s no waiting. Cristiano must have taken care of all of it.
I can feel the costs adding up. The private ambulance. The private room. All these highly trained professionals. I don’t know how I’ll ever pay Cristiano back.
I try to keep up with the stretcher, but my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stay upright. Cristiano appears at my side, his hand hovering near my elbow, ready to catch me if I fall.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
He doesn’t pick me up again, but he stays close, a solid presence at my shoulder, as we follow Leon through pristine corridors that smell like nothing at all. He’s in full business mode now. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the sharpness of his gaze. He’s watching everything. Every nurse who approaches Leon, every piece of equipment, every door we pass through. Making sure it all meets his exacting standards.
Leon’s private room is like something from a different world. The bed is larger than the one at North Malus, with crisp white sheets and several thick blankets instead of that thin, scratchything he had before. The monitors are new and silent, with soft displays showing his vitals. There’s a window overlooking a garden. An armchair that looks comfortable. A private bathroom with a shower.
The nurses settle Leon into the bed with gentle efficiency. One of them dims the lights without being asked, creating a soft, calm atmosphere. When they’re done, they slip out quietly, promising to check back in thirty minutes.
And then it’s just us. Me, Cristiano, and our son.
Cristiano stands by the window, arms crossed, watching Leon sleep. His face is unreadable, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The tightness in his jaw.
He hasn’t touched Leon. Hasn’t let himself get close. Like he’s afraid to, or he doesn’t think he has the right.
A soft knock at the door breaks the silence. Two men step into the room, and I recognize them immediately. Cristiano’s men, the ones who are always hovering nearby, silent and watchful. Dangerous and tattooed with sharp suits and sharper eyes.
One of them is carrying a huge stuffed dinosaur. A T-rex, Leon’s favorite, along with several smaller plush animals. The other has his arms full of flowers and a large paper bag that smells like food. I wonder if they’ve robbed the whole gift shop.
“Boss,” the first one says, nodding to Cristiano. Then his eyes fall on Leon, small and yellow in the big white bed, and his face softens. “Poverobambino.”
The other one approaches my chair and holds out the paper bag.
“You must eat,signorina,” he says in accented English. “There is soup. Bread. Juice. The boss, he says you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway.” He presses the bag into my hands. It’s warm. “For thebambino. You must be strong for him, yes?”
I don’t have the energy to argue, and I take the bag.
The men arrange the stuffed animals around Leon’s bed, tucking the T-rex next to his pillow, propping a plush elephant by his feet. They move carefully, these hard men with harder faces.
“He’s a fighter, this one,” the first man says, looking down at Leon. “You can see it in his face. Strong, like his papa.”
My throat tightens.
A nurse arrives in the doorway and looks expectantly at Cristiano. “Mr. Montoni, would you please come with me?”
Cristiano steps away from the window. “I’m going to have my blood drawn,” he explains to me. “For the tissue matching.”
I look up at him. There’s so much I should say.Thank you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happens now.
But all I manage is a tight, scared nod.
If he’s not a match? What then?
