23. Diavolo
DIAVOLO
It’s been twenty-three minutes and no news.
I pace the length of the hall outside the guest bedroom for the umpteenth time, scowling behind the devil’s mask. If Dr. Delfino doesn’t come out within the next five minutes, I’m busting the door down and going inside myself.
Private exam or not.
I’d been in my office getting some late-night work done when I heard the cries for help.
At first I thought it was coming from outside. Living in a big city like Newport, it’s a regular occurrence to hear the ambulance or screaming voices coming from the streets down below.
But then I went still and listened to the sound and realized who it belonged to.
I left the desk and strode down the hall straight for the guest bedroom. The room was dark, but the light from the hall flooded in and revealed the blood everywhere.
It was like some murder scene.
A primal, protective sense I wasn’t aware of having beat to life inside me as I looked from the bloody sheets in Portia’s bed to the trail on the floor, then the bathroom.
I rushed over, shoving the door open to find her collapsed on the floor, thighs streaked red, fingertips painted in it.
I’ve decapitated men and stepped over corpses without blinking, but that image disturbed me in a way I wasn’t aware I could be disturbed.
Not when I pride myself on being cold, cruel, and emotionless.
It seems that is the case in every situation except where she is concerned. Where she is concerned, I’m once again unable to shut down those types of responses. I’m reacting like he would finding her passed out in her own blood on the floor?—
The door finally opens.
Dr. Delfino appears in the doorway looking unsurprised to find me in the hall. He’s tall and slim, with gray hair up top and on his beard, his eyes the same shade.
“You can come in now if you’d like,” he says.
“It’s about fucking time,” I snap, jaw clenched. I stride in past him like he has reason to fear me—and he might if I don’t like his prognosis.
Portia’s propped up in bed under clean bedsheets, looking significantly better than the last time I saw her. That alone fills me with relief.
Her eyes are open and she’s alert. She’s no longer drenched in sweat and blood and shaking from intense pain, though I can tell she’s still not herself.
Delfino’s likely got her on some powerful pain medications.
For a brief moment, the urge to walk over and stroke her hair strikes me. I even take half a step in the direction of her bed, then stop myself.
My hands push into my pockets and I stride toward the window instead, pretending to look out at the glittering city streets below.
“I’m glad to see you’re still among the living,” I say noncommittally.
“Surprised is more like it. I felt like someone was taking a meat grinder to my uterus.”
I look accusatorially at Dr. Delfino as he closes the door and steps toward the foot of Portia’s bed. “Well?” I demand. “What’s wrong with her? What happened? Why would she have collapsed the way she did? What are you doing to fix it?”
Dr. Delfino adjusts his glasses, keeping his calm even as a mafia boss asks him interrogation-style questions.
“She’s experiencing a severe flare-up of endometriosis, likely compounded by acute stress and a disruption in her hormonal treatment.
From what I’ve gathered, she hasn’t been consistent with her prescribed medications for some time now, which would’ve helped regulate both the inflammation and the bleeding.
That kind of lapse, combined with what I assume is sustained psychological distress, creates a perfect storm.
The pain alone could’ve triggered vasovagal syncope. ”
“Triggered a what?” I snap. “Speak fucking English!”
“Fainting brought on by the body’s response to extreme discomfort.
The blood loss didn’t help,” he explains.
“We’ve stabilized her for now. I’ve administered fluids and pain relief, but she’s severely anemic and dehydrated.
Her vitals are being monitored. What she needs moving forward is rest, consistent medication, and a stable environment—not more shocks to her system. ”
“I’ve been providing her a stable environment,” I say, then glance over at her as if guilty.
Portia merely stares back, her expression unreadable.
…definitely guilty.
The pang hits me as I meet her gaze, realizing the situation I’ve put her in was likely a direct factor in her flare-up.
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. And her medications? You’ve prescribed plenty of those?”
“I’ve written her prescriptions for hormonal therapy—norethindrone acetate to suppress endometrial growth and minimize future bleeding episodes.
I’ve also included an anti-inflammatory for pain management.
Her anemia is concerning, so I’ve ordered a high-dose iron supplement and started her on IV fluids with electrolytes to stabilize her in the meantime. ”
He steps toward the dresser, where the collection of items is perched.
“In addition to medication, I’ve arranged for a portable heating pad to be brought in.
Gentle heat over the pelvis can help with cramping.
She should avoid cold environments for the next few days; cold can cause the uterine muscles to contract more aggressively.
Light movement will help circulation once she’s stable, but she shouldn’t be on her feet too long.
If anything worsens, feel free to give me a call right away. ”
I shake his hand and walk him out to the elevator, thanking him for showing up on such short notice. Once he’s gone, I return to Portia’s bedroom to find her struggling to get out of bed.
She’s bracing her weight on one elbow, her brow pinched, her other hand clutching the bedsheets like she might wrench them off entirely.
I leave her alone for five seconds and this is what happens.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I bark, rushing over. My hand shoots out to steady her as her body wobbles.
She winces as I gently guide her back against the pillows. “I needed to grab something.”
I grimace behind the mask, jaw locked tight. “If there’s something you need, that’s what Mara is for.”
“I don’t feel like yelling halfway across the penthouse every time I want something. It’s exhausting.” Her dark eyes lift to meet mine, showing my reflection in them, once again serving as a reminder of who’s really at fault here.
This isn’t a situation Portia brought on herself.
This is a situation I’ve put her in and caused to happen.
I’m the reason her body buckled under pressure. I’m the one who pushed her too far, whose presence has put her under such extreme duress it’s affected her health.
I draw a slow breath and temper my voice into a calmer tone. “Tell me what it is. I’ll get it myself.”
She hesitates half a second, then says, “The heating pad. It’ll help with the ache in my pelvis.”
I nod and cross the room in two quick strides. I return with it in hand for her to take.
“Anything else?”
“That’s okay,” she mumbles. “You can go now.”
I can tell by how she won’t look at me directly even as she utters the words that I’ve done some real damage to this woman.
For as protective as I felt finding her unconscious on the floor, I was not only the cause. I’ve made her feel so uncomfortable and reluctant in my presence that she won’t even ask for basic assistance when she needs it.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” I ask. “I’m the reason you had this flare-up.”
She draws a shaky breath, fumbling with the heating pad. It has a cord attached to it that needs to be plugged into the outlet by the bed.
But that’s too far from where she’s propped up against the pillows. I watch firsthand as she once again tries to reach over and do it herself. I take the plug from her grasp before she can and slide it into the socket.
She settles back against the pillows. “It’s not exactly easy being held captive.”
“That’s true,” I admit. “But that doesn’t mean your health isn’t important. You still need to be taken care of.”
She lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. The long and slow blink she takes makes me think she’s tempted to even roll her eyes.
I cup her face by the chin first, catching her off guard and forcing her gaze to mine.
“Dolcezza,” I say, my voice suddenly huskier. “I mean every word of that. It’s important you are cared for. So tell me. What else do you need?”
She pauses as she blinks up at me with her beautiful dark eyes and long lashes that I’m sure he’s fallen in love with a million times over.
“Some herbal tea… would be nice,” she murmurs finally.
I nod, already turning to leave. “Coming right up.”
An hour later, Portia and I are in her bedroom, halfway through the cult classic My Cousin Vinny , over warm bowls of stracciatella soup courtesy of Mara, and any bad air between us has been cleared. At least for the moment.
I’m not entirely sure how we arrived at this strange détente, though it started when I brought the herbal tea she asked for and hovered by the door longer than I meant to. She didn’t tell me to go. Maybe because she was too tired. Or maybe because for once she didn’t feel like fighting.
Either way, I asked if she wanted me to put on something on the TV, something to take her mind off the pain, and she shrugged in that indifferent way that said she wouldn’t mind.
So I turned on the TV, opened the first streaming app that loaded, and saw My Cousin Vinny plastered across the home screen.
She perked up immediately. “I like that movie.”
I clicked play, then hovered long enough to realize it was a comedy about the mob. Curiosity piqued, I stayed by the door to watch the first few scenes.
She was sipping her tea, heating pad on her lower stomach, bedsheets pooled around her waist.
Eventually, I stayed long enough to sit down on the edge of the mattress, careful to keep space between us.
It wasn’t lost on me that she was suffering from her flare-up because of me.