Chapter 38
38
GIANNA
I’m still not sure how I could get pregnant while on the birth control pill, so I keep telling myself I’m just overreacting. I mean, I know no means of birth control is foolproof—the damn pamphlet even says 99.9% effective, not 100%—but still.
Just because I missed my period for a few months doesn’t mean anything, right? And sure, I’ve been feeling nauseous since last night, but that could just be from seeing my uncle’s limbs scattered across the floor. Pretty sure that would make anyone sick. It’s not like it’s automatically a pregnancy symptom. Oh, and stress can make you feel sick too. And God knows I’ve been through a whole lot of that lately.
After Michael gets over his initial shock, he’s downright giddy and insists we go to the hospital right away to confirm it. While he rushes through a shower and gets dressed, my heart thumps nervously, and I chew my nails as I pace.
When he exits the walk-in closet, he looks every inch the billionaire businessman again—sharp, put-together, not a trace of the psychopathic mafia killer who barged in here earlier, face and clothes stained with blood as he spilled my uncle’s limbs in front of me like some sort of exotic present.
Good riddance to him. I’ve gone through enough grief and heartache because of him.
“Ready?” Michael asks as he walks towards me, taking me in with a frown. “Are you not getting dressed?”
“I’m comfortable this way,” I mumble, tugging at the hem of my shirt. The truth is I’m too paralyzed with fear to bother changing. Plus, if I’m honest, there’s a little bit of hope creeping in too. I do want children, but I didn’t think either Michael or I were ready for that responsibility, which is why I took those pills so religiously.
But now that there’s a possibility of there being a child—our child—I realize a tiny part of me underneath all my fear wants it.
Heart pounding like crazy, I follow him out of the bedroom, quickly averting my gaze from the sack leaking blood by the door. Michael notices my reaction immediately. “It won’t be here when we get back,” he assures me, his fingers already dancing across his phone screen, undoubtedly ordering some poor soul to dispose of my uncle’s remains.
We head out to the car, and three more cars fall in line behind us as we pull out of his compound. I’m not sure where he's taking me, and quite frankly, I don’t care and can barely make out the landmarks on the road, too lost in my swirling thoughts. So I’m a little surprised when he pulls up in front of a hospital with the name Gianna’s Hospital emblazoned across the front in elegant lettering.
Even though the building seems newer and modern, I can recognize the bones of the structure as the hospital he got for me. The one we visited—was it only a week ago? Time always seems to fly when I’m with Michael. He had it renamed after me?
“What do you think? We’re still working on some renovations inside, but it’s coming along quite quickly and should be ready by the end of next month.” He grins at me, excitement radiating from him, but I can barely muster up a wan smile, too overwhelmed by the emotional tsunami of my potential pregnancy.
“It looks good, thanks,” I manage to croak out, my voice thin and distant.
Michael’s smile dims, the light in his eyes fading, but he doesn’t say anything more as we get out of the car. His men fall into step behind us as we make our way through the hospital lobby, past the waiting room, and up the stairs to the OB/GYN department. Nobody stops us or asks questions. They know better.
When we reach the department, Michael knocks on a door with the name Dr. Lana Murdoch etched on a glossy plaque.
A beautiful bronze-skinned woman in her mid-thirties steps out with a polite smile, but there’s unmistakable fear lurking in the depths of her eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart, welcome.” She waves us into her office where one of those hospital beds with stirrups and some weird machines are set up in a corner.
Michael’s men station themselves outside as we go inside, and the doctor, Lana, leads us towards the equipment. Somehow, her nervousness settles some of my own nerves.
I settle onto the examination chair, and she carefully asks for permission to take my blood sample. Her hands are steady now, professional instinct overriding her fear as she works.
“This will just pinch a bit,” she murmurs, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. After getting jabbed in the neck with God knows what, this tiny needle is a damn joke.
I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting the tiny dots in the acoustic tiles as she draws my blood, barely feeling the sting of the needle as she prods it into my vein.
She’s done quickly and goes to a corner to the machine where she’ll test the blood for pregnancy hormones. Normally, she isn’t supposed to do this in front of the patient, but I guess ours is a special case. When you’re married to Michael Hart, normal rules dissolve like sugar in hot coffee.
The room fills with suffocating tension as we wait for Lana to tell us the result. I bite my lip and bounce my knees nervously. Michael taps his expensive shoes against the floor. Click, click, click. A metronome marking the seconds until our fate is revealed.
Finally, Lana takes off her gloves and approaches us with a hesitant smile. “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.”
Michael’s reaction is instantaneous and explosive. He leaps from his chair with a happy whoop that makes the doctor jump, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Did you hear that, Gianna? We’re going to be parents.” He rushes towards me to grab my hands, and his excitement is so contagious, I find myself smiling back, the tiny seed of hope blooming into something more.
“Would you like to see your baby?” Lana asks, and Michael’s head snaps towards her, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“We can do that so early?” he asks, genuine surprise coloring his voice. She nods, and Michael looks at me, waiting for my answer.
“I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad,” I answer, and Lana starts setting up the ultrasound equipment. I already know about the process from my nursing education, but she walks me through it anyway, her voice soothing and reassuring.
Since the pregnancy is still in its early stages—just the fourth week—we can only see the baby through the transvaginal ultrasound. I take off my pants and lie back, my heart thundering as she carefully inserts the transducer into my vagina.
The monitor next to my bed flickers to life with grainy images of a tiny blob of tissues, barely distinguishable from the surrounding darkness. But it’s there. It’s real. My baby. A tsunami of emotions surges through my veins as I watch the black and white image, my eyes pricking with tears.
Holy crap, I’m going to be a mother.
The next couple of weeks pass in a surreal blur, with Michael doting on me like it’s his full-time job. He leaves home for work much later than usual and returns shockingly early, never leaving my side except when absolutely necessary. Even though he never comes right out to say he loves me, his constant presence in my day-to-day life makes me feel cherished and loved in ways I never imagined possible.
When the second month rolls around, I realize I’m nowhere near ready for my license test, so I push it back another month. Half of that is Michael’s fault, distracting me with sex when I’m supposed to be studying. So I end up finally booting him out the house one morning, telling him to go back to his usual routine instead of hovering over me like a horny shadow. He sulks but agrees—though his absence doesn’t do a damn thing to ease my distraction.
And God, to make it worse, hitting the middle of my second trimester brings on a wave of horniness. It’s ridiculous. I always want to have sex, and seemingly mundane things—the way sunlight hits the kitchen counter, the smell of fresh coffee, even the damn weather report—make me think of Michael, and I waste precious time daydreaming about him and us together.
Finally, it’s D-day. The day of my test.
Michael drives me to the exam center with a few of his men, fully intent on waiting for me outside.
“No way,” I protest, shaking my head firmly. “I won’t be able to focus if I know all I have to do is submit my test to see you again.”
His eyes kindle with amusement, his lips curling up in a pleased smile that makes my knees weak. He does that a lot now—smiling, laughing, playing around with me. God, I love that I’m able to draw that side of him out.
“Call me as soon as you’re done, and I’ll come right over,” he grudgingly concedes, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to my lips, his hand curling down to my belly to palm the little bump there.
“Nuh, huh. That’s too much pressure, baby. I’ll start to panic that I’m taking too long to call you. How about I call you as soon as I’m at home?”
His eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to argue, but I quickly continue. “I need to pass this test, Michael. You know that.” My hospital’s renovation was completed a few weeks ago, but I haven’t been able to go to work because of my lack of license.
“Fine. I’ll take it as a compliment that I distract you so much,” he teases and rubs my belly. “Our little one will be good for you today as well; she can sense today’s an important day.”
I smile, warmth spreading through me. Michael keeps referring to our baby as a ‘she’, insisting with absolute certainty, but deep in my bones, I know it’s a boy. He says I’m wrong, but a mother knows these things. The connection is primal, beyond explanation. “Yeah, no nausea since I woke up. Miracle, really,” I agree, touching my stomach gratefully. I was hoping that crap would vanish after my first trimester, but nope—it just got worse.
Michael gives me one last lingering kiss, this time with a hunger that makes my toes curl in my shoes, before reluctantly letting me go. And then I’m off to the exam center, forcing myself to walk away from him.
Inside, the exam room is sterile and quiet, the only sound the soft hum of computers and the nervous rustling of other candidates. I take a deep breath as I find my seat, pushing aside the churning anxiety in my gut.
I glance out the window at the roiling dark clouds gathering on the horizon and try not to take it as a sign. Not an omen , I tell myself firmly. Just weather.
“Hello, Gianna,” the organizer says as she approaches my seat. “Are you ready?”
I turn away from the gloomy window to give her a small, nervous smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’ll have up to five hours to complete the exam,” she explains as she boots the computer in front of me. “You can take two breaks if needed, but they’re optional. The test will automatically stop when you get more than half of the questions correctly. Your time starts as soon as you begin the test.”
I nod, knowing all this already, but appreciate the reminder. My brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
The computerized exam simply tests my knowledge of the field, critical thinking, and decision-making related to patient safety, clinical practice, and care management. It brings up selective questions based on how I answered the previous ones. Adaptive testing. Sink or swim.
I glance out the window one last time, then turn back to my computer and click start. I can do this!
I squint at the computer screen and dim the bright light a bit to read the first question. I smile as I answer it, confidence slowly building with each correct response.
Over four hours later, the test automatically stops, the screen transitioning from the question section to inform me I’m done. My fingers and neck are cramped from how I hunched over the computer, and my eyes sting a little from how long I stared at the screen non-stop. My back aches. My brain feels wrung out.
But it’s over. I actually finished.
Now all that’s left is to wait the dreaded six weeks for the results, though knowing Michael, he’d most likely pressure me into purchasing the quick results—an unofficial result available two business days after the exam. But I can worry about that later. For now, I just want to breathe.
When I get out of the exam center, Lorenzo and three of Michael’s men leap to their feet and start clapping, grabbing people’s attention. Seriously? My face heats up, and I raise my hands to my flaming cheeks as I hurry towards them. “You’re embarrassing me,” I hiss to Lorenzo, who only gives me an unrepentant grin.
“Only following the boss’s orders, ma’am,” he says, presenting me with an enormous bouquet of tulips wrapped in pretty pink paper. Then, to my astonishment, he takes out a gold medal from his pocket and hangs it around my neck with ceremonial flourish.
It’s so over the top, it’s ridiculous. I love it.
I shift my flowers to one hand and lift the gold medal to read the engraving. “World’s best RN, Wife, and Mother.” I blink back the stinging tears and clutch my medal tightly. It doesn’t matter that I’m only a wife right now; I’ll be a mother and RN soon. So soon I can taste it.
“Ready to go home?” Lorenzo asks, watching me with a mixture of amusement and concern.
“Of course.” I’m more than ready. I told Michael I’d call him when I get home, but the second we’re in the car, I’m already dialing his number. I need to hear his voice.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hi, love. Done with your test?” There’s a low hum of voices in the background, and I bite my lip, remembering he mentioned having a meeting with his shareholders.
Damn it. I should have waited.
“You’re still in your meeting? Let’s talk later.”
“No, stay on the line. They can wait. Tell me how your test went.”
“It was… exhilarating,” I admit, the word tumbling out. “It started off really easy, and the difficulty level rapidly climbed up, but I think I might have aced it.” My confidence isn’t false bravado; I genuinely feel good about my performance. “Thank you for the flowers and the medal. I love them.” I love you , I almost say, but swallow the words.
He chuckles. “I’ll kick these assholes out as soon as possible and meet you at home, okay?”
“I can’t wait,” I say, and we end the call.
When I get home, Gracie and Elira are waiting for me outside the house, and they clap their hands, cheering dramatically as if I’ve returned from conquering Mount Everest. And to my utter embarrassment, I burst out crying.
“It’s–it’s the hormones,” I choke out as they rush over and wrap me up in warm hugs. I’ve never had this before—this overwhelming support and blatant show of love. When I agreed to marry Michael, I didn’t see this in my future at all.
Gracie and Elira murmur soothing words as we head inside, both of them gushing over my flowers and medal like they’re the most impressive things they’ve ever seen.
Elira can’t stay long, but before leaving, she grins and says, “I can’t wait to brag to people that my best friend is a licensed nurse with her own hospital.”
Best friend.
My throat tightens as I pull her into an extra-tight hug before she goes. Then I head up to Michael’s and my bedroom where I drop my flowers and medal on the bed before taking a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the day.
When I’m back in the room, I open my nightstand drawer to grab my underwear, but my gaze shifts to Michael’s drawer. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull it open, checking out the contents that scandalized me months ago when I first saw them.
My eyes land on the key card, and I pick it up, my mind flashing back to that evening months ago when I was tossed into the prison. There was a door there, right next to the tattoo room. The memory crystalizes with sudden clarity. That door. That has to be where this key belongs.
I dress quickly, heart racing with anticipation, and leave the bedroom, making my way there. When I reach the door, I tap the card against the electronic reader, holding my breath. The light blinks green, and the latch clicks with a soft sound. Bingo .
I push the door open, not sure what I’ll find on the other side. A treasure room? Weapons? More secrets from Michael’s bloody past?
As I walk into the dark room, warm red lights turn on automatically, bathing the space with a crimson glow. My jaw drops. There are pictures everywhere—hundreds of them, maybe more. And they’re all of me.
I stare, speechless, heart hammering against my ribs as I take in the sight. There are photos from years back, right after I lost my parents—God, I look so young, so broken. My high school graduation picture, college graduation, even a grainy shot of me standing in front of a burning car.
Dario’s Jaguar—the one I stole that night I ran away from home.
I move closer. There’s me bartending in Vince’s bar. Exploring Michael’s house in Seattle. Sleeping on the plane. Eating. Laughing. Glaring.
Every version of me imaginable is here. It’s like a shrine dedicated to me, and frankly, I’m completely flabbergasted.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I whip around to see Michael standing there, watching me with that careful, assessing look.
“So, you’ve discovered my secret,” he starts, his voice low, gaze roaming my face for any hint of emotion, any clue to what I’m thinking.
I watch him stoically, but after a couple of seconds, I can’t swallow back my smile any longer. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
“Totally. More than you could ever imagine.” He agrees without hesitation and closes the distance between us to grab my arms with gentle intensity. “You’re everything to me, Gianna. My whole world has narrowed to me and you and our child. When I’m not with you, I’m impatient to come back home. I’m irritated that I have to be away from you at all. I love you, Gianna. Ti amo da morire .”
The Italian flows from his lips like music— I love you to death.
The words ripple through me, breaking something loose that’s been stuck for too long.
“ Anch’io ti amo, cuore mio, ” I say, my voice trembling with the weight of emotion, and I let out a watery laugh. “Damn hormones.”
He grins, leaning down to kiss me softly. “I love you, hormones and all.”