Chapter 28 Giuliana
GIULIANA
I fucking hate hospitals.
I’m sitting in a wheelchair someone forced me into, staring at the double doors Luca disappeared through twenty minutes ago.
They wheeled him away so fast—a blur of scrubs and urgent voices and the steady beep of monitors that didn’t sound right, that sounded wrong in a way that made my chest constrict with panic.
“Ma’am, we need to examine you.” A nurse is hovering beside me, her face kind but firm. She’s young, maybe my age, with dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her badge says her name is Julie. “You’ve been shot. You need treatment.”
I move away from her. “I’ve already been treated,” I say in a hollow voice, still staring toward the double doors where Luca had once been. “There was a doctor. He stitched me up.”
Julie is already reaching for my wheelchair again.
“We need to verify the work was done correctly,” she says, pushing me away from the doors.
“We need to check for infection. You’ve lost a significant amount of blood.
” I’m being wheeled toward another room, and I want to fight her.
I want to stay right here where I can see those doors, where I’ll know the moment Luca—
“Is he going to die?” The question bursts out of me.
Julie’s expression softens, her brown eyes sympathetic. “The doctors are doing everything they can,” she says gently. “Your husband is strong. He made it this far.”
Her words are supposed to comfort me, but they don’t. That’s not an answer. That’s the kind of thing people say when they don’t want to tell you the truth.
The examination room is too bright, too sterile, too far from where Luca is fighting for his life.
Another doctor appears—older, gray-haired, with tired eyes that have clearly been on rounds for too long.
He introduces himself as Dr. Clark, and he speaks in a calm, measured tone that I’m sure is meant to be reassuring but just makes me want to scream. Don’t these people realize I’m fine?
“Let’s take a look at that wound,” he says, and I let them cut away the bandages. Dr. Clark examines the stitching Romano’s doctor did in that warehouse.
“Surprisingly good work,” Dr. Clark murmurs, probing gently. I wince, biting back a gasp. “Clean stitches, no signs of infection yet. You’re lucky.”
Again with that word. First the doctor in the warehouse and now this doctor. I don’t feel lucky, I want to scream. I feel like I’m drowning!
“We’ll need to do an ultrasound,” he continues, making notes on a tablet. “Given the trauma and blood loss, we need to check on the fetus.”
My hand flies to my stomach. The baby. God, with everything happening to Luca, I almost forgot—
No. That’s not true. I haven’t forgotten.
I told it to the intake nurse the moment we got to the hospital.
Every breath I take reminds me of the tiny life growing inside me, the child I hope Luca knows about before he went unconscious.
I hate myself for not being able to get the words out before he—
“Is the baby okay?” My voice cracks, fear seizing me. I can’t lose Luca and my baby too.
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Dr. Clark says gently as someone knocks on the door and a woman pops her head in with a portable ultrasound machine.
“I’m going to do your ultrasound,” she tells me as Dr. Clark leaves the room. She squirts icy gel on my stomach, and I stare at the monitor, barely breathing as she moves the wand across my skin.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but gray static and shapes I can’t identify.
Then—
“There.” The technician points, and I see it. A tiny flicker on the screen, barely visible. “That’s the heartbeat. Strong and steady.”
I burst into tears.
“Your baby is approximately seven weeks along,” she continues, her voice warm but she hands me a tissue. “Heartbeat is 150 beats per minute, which is excellent. No signs of distress despite the trauma you’ve experienced. You’re very fortunate, Ms. Conti.”
“Mrs. Marchetti,” I correct through my tears. I’m crying so hard I can barely see the screen anymore, but I can’t look away from that flickering light. “It’s Mrs. Marchetti now.”
Our baby. Luca’s baby. The tiny life we created together, surviving against all odds.
He has to wake up. He has to be okay because I can’t do this alone. I can’t raise this baby without him.
“Please,” I beg the technician, even though I know she can’t help me. “Please, I need to see my husband. I need to be with him.”
“He’s in surgery,” she says gently. “It could be hours. You should rest—”
“I’m not resting.” I sit up, ignoring the way the movement pulls at my stitches, sending pain radiating through my chest. “I need to be there when he wakes up.”
Dr. Clark appears in the doorway. From his expression, I know he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.
“Mrs. Marchetti, your husband’s injuries are extensive.
Three gunshot wounds, broken ribs, significant blood loss.
He’s going to be in surgery for quite some time, and then in recovery.
The best thing you can do right now is let us finish treating you and get some rest.”
“I’m not leaving him.” The words come out fierce and absolute. “I don’t care what you say. I’m staying.”
Dr. Clark sighs, clearly recognizing a losing battle when he sees one. “At least let us get you cleaned up and into a proper room,” he says wearily, running a hand over his face. “You need fluids, antibiotics, and monitoring.” He gives me a piercing look. “Your baby needs you healthy.”
Dammit. The mention of the baby is what makes me agree. For the baby, I’ll cooperate. For the baby, I’ll let them poke and prod and pump me full of whatever medicines they think I need.
But I’m not leaving this hospital. And the moment Luca is out of surgery, I’m going to be by his side.
They put me in a recovery room on the fourth floor.
It’s private and quiet, decorated in soothing blues and grays that do nothing to soothe the terror clawing at my chest. An IV drips steadily into my arm—fluids and antibiotics, they said.
My wound has been re-bandaged, my vitals checked and recorded.
And I’m going fucking insane.
Every minute that passes is another minute I don’t know if Luca is alive or dead. Every footstep in the hallway makes me think it’s a doctor coming to tell me terrible news. Every page over the intercom sounds like a code for “patient in OR deceased.”
Danny appears in my doorway after several hours. He looks haggard, exhausted, his usually neat suit rumpled and stained with blood. Luca’s blood.
“Any news?” I ask before he can speak, my heart in my throat.
He shakes his head. “Still in surgery. Viktor’s got his best people making sure the surgeons have everything they need.” He hesitates. “They’re bringing in a specialist for the shoulder reconstruction.”
Shoulder reconstruction. That sounds bad. That sounds like permanent damage. My heart monitor picks up.
“He’s going to be okay,” Danny says quickly, eyeing the monitor, but I can hear the uncertainty beneath the confidence. “The boss is tough. He’s survived worse.”
“Has he?” I ask, not really buying Danny’s excuse. “Has he really survived being shot multiple times while fighting a man who wanted him dead?”
Danny’s expression softens. “No,” he sighs. “But he’s survived a lot. And he’s got something to fight for now that he didn’t have before.”
“What’s that?”
“You.” Danny’s green eyes meet mine. “He knows what matters now. That’s going to bring him back.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe that love is enough to keep someone alive.
“I want to be in his room,” I tell Danny. “When he gets out of surgery, I want to be there.”
Danny nods. “I’ll talk to the doctors. See what I can arrange.”
“No.” I push myself up in the bed, ignoring the way my chest protests.
“I don’t think you heard me, Danny Grasso.
I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Move me to his room.
I don’t fucking care what strings you have to pull or who you have to threaten.
I’m not spending another goddamn minute in this room while Luca is somewhere else in this hospital. ”
For a moment, Danny just stares at me. Then a slow smile crosses his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, pride in his voice. “I’ll take care of it.”
It takes two hours of arguing with hospital administrators, but Danny makes it happen. By the time Luca is wheeled out of surgery and into a recovery room, I’m already there, waiting.
They’ve set up a second bed for me, right next to his. It’s close enough that I can reach out and touch him and can watch his chest rise and fall with each breath and reassure myself that he’s alive.
But when I see him, I want to cry. He looks terrible.
His face is bruised and swollen, his right shoulder heavily bandaged. There are tubes and wires everywhere—IV lines, monitors, oxygen. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room besides my own ragged breathing.
“The surgery went well,” the surgeon tells me.
She’s a severe-looking woman in her fifties with sharp eyes, her hair still tucked under her surgical cap.
“We repaired the damage to his shoulder. There was extensive soft tissue injury, but the bone wasn’t shattered.
He’ll need physical therapy, but he should regain most of the function.
The leg wound was clean, through and through.
The chest wound…” She pauses. “That one was touch and go. The bullet nicked a major blood vessel. But we got it. He’s stable now. ”
“When will he wake up?” My voice trembles. His injuries sound like he could have died. Rage courses through me, so hot the room feels warm. Romano is so fucking fortunate he’s dead because I would have killed him myself for what he did to Luca.
The surgeon shrugs. “It could be hours, or could be a day or more. His body has been through significant trauma. The anesthesia, combined with the blood loss and physical stress…he needs time to heal.”
Time. We have time now. Romano is dead. The threat is gone. We have all the time in the world for Luca to heal.
So why does it feel like time is running out?
The surgeon leaves, and Danny settles into a chair in the corner. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there like a silent guardian. I’m grateful for his presence, for not being alone with my fear.
I reach out and take Luca’s hand. It’s cool and limp, so different from the strong grip I’m used to. But I can feel his pulse beating against my fingers, steady and strong. I press a kiss to his palm.
“You listen to me, Luca Marchetti,” I say softly, my thumb stroking circles on the back of his hand. “You don’t get to die on me. Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through. You promised me forever, and I’m holding you to that.”
He doesn’t respond or move, but I was expecting that. The monitors keep beeping their steady rhythm.
“I need you,” I continue, my voice breaking. “I need you so much. So you need to wake up, okay? You need to come back to me.”
Still nothing. Just the beep of monitors and the quiet hum of hospital machinery.
I settle back in my own bed, never letting go of his hand. “I’ll wait,” I whisper. “However long it takes, I’ll be right here.”