I watched his eyes flutter, fighting the morphine. The hospital air pressed down on me, heavy with antiseptic and something else—something like waiting. In the hallway, nurses rushed past, their voices fading in and out like a badly tuned radio.
"I'm going to see about discharge papers," Dante said. His voice was steady, but his eyes kept darting to the door, counting exits, calculating risks. "Stay with him."
Marco grinned weakly. "Hey, I turned out okay."
"You got shot," Dante pointed out.
“So did you. Didn’t want you to get all the glory.”
I watched them banter, the rhythm so familiar it almost made me forget where we were. For a second, it could’ve beenjust another Moretti family drama—no blood, no bullets, just brothers being brothers.
A nurse appeared, clipboard in hand. "Mrs. Sutherland? The doctor would like to see you."
I froze. I hadn’t scheduled anything for myself. Dante’s hand tightened on mine, his body tensing like a wire. This must have been Dante’s doing, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. But, of course, it made sense. He always had to be in control. It made sense that he had to continue being in control.
He wanted to make sure that his baby was okay. My hand immediately went to my belly, holding it tight on where my baby was. He kicked. I smiled.
"It's routine," the nurse added, seeing my hesitation. "For all women in your condition. Just a quick check."
I glanced at Dante, and he gave me a nearly imperceptible nod. "I'll be right back," I told him, following the nurse down the antiseptic-scented hallway.
The exam room was small and cold, the paper beneath me crackling as I sat on the edge of the table. A doctor entered—a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes that had seen too much.
"I'm Dr. Patel," she said, washing her hands. "I understand you're visiting from the States?"
"Yes," I said, the lie smooth as glass. "Just for a week or so."
"And you're approximately..." Dr. Patel glanced at my belly, making a quick assessment, "eighteen, nineteen weeks?"
"Nineteen," I confirmed.
She nodded, pulling out a stethoscope. "Any complications with the pregnancy so far?"
I almost laughed. Complications? Like running for my life? Crossing borders in stolen cars? Learning to shoot a gun with a baby inside me?
"No," I said instead. "Everything's been...textbook. Well, I had to go to the hospital once, but it’s all been sorted. And I’ve been really nauseous."
Her hands were warm as she pressed the stethoscope to my abdomen, moving it methodically. "Have you had your anatomy scan yet?"
"Not yet. It's scheduled for next week." Another lie.
The doctor hummed, noncommittal. "Your blood pressure's a bit elevated."
"I'm stressed," I admitted. "My brother-in-law's surgery..."
"Of course." Her eyes softened. "But stress isn't good for the baby. You should try to rest when you can."
Rest. What a concept. I couldn't remember the last time I'd truly rested.
"I'd like to do a quick ultrasound, if that's alright," Dr. Patel said. "Just to check that everything's developing as it should."
I hesitated. An ultrasound meant records. Pictures. Evidence we were here.
"It's completely optional," she added, misreading my hesitation. "But since you're here anyway..."
I stared at the ceiling, weighing my options. The paper beneath me crackled again. The world outside this room was chaos; in here, it was just me and the baby and the cold hands of a doctor who didn’t know our real names. I nodded.
I wanted to see him. I needed to see him.
