Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty Two
Elena
The waiting room looks more like a hotel lobby than a doctor’s office. Soft chairs the color of sage, real plants instead of those waxy impostors, a wall-sized photograph of a shoreline that’s probably supposed to be calming. Even the air feels different, filtered and faintly citrusy.
It’s the nicest doctor’s office I’ve ever been to.
Of course it is. It was one of the names on Luca’s list—the one with the added note about “discretion assured.” I told myself that’s why I picked it.
I told myself that out of town makes sense, reduces the chances of running into anyone from the courthouse, makes it less likely that anyone would see me and ask questions.
I told myself a lot of things. None of them stops my knee from bouncing.
There’s a couple across from me, her hand under his in that absentminded way that says we do this all the time now.
The woman on my left is maybe late thirties, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt with a yoga studio on it, staring into the middle distance like she’s listening to something only she can hear.
A grandmother type by the window is knitting something yellow with the speed of a person who learned to pass the time in waiting rooms a long time ago. There’s a drink station along the wall with a pitcher of water with cucumbers and mint, and all the glasses are real glass, not paper or plastic.
I filled out the forms online like a good modern patient, so the tablet on my lap is just consent screens and acknowledgments that feel like the end of a trial: sign here; initial there; we own your data unless you say otherwise.
Luca said he would be here.
I look at the door like I can conjure him through it. He shouldn’t be able to get here without tripping a dozen alarms. I know that. And I picked an office out of town, despite everything he said and promised, so if he doesn’t come, that’s on me. Good. Better. Safer. My heart doesn’t agree.
I tell myself I don’t want him in a room like this with me. I tell myself I’m a grown woman who doesn’t need a hand to hold. I tell myself I can do this alone because I’ve done harder things alone in courtrooms. I tell myself a lot of things.
Where is he?
“Elena Pennino?” a nurse calls brightly. I stand too fast and nearly drop my bag. She smiles like this happens, which it probably does. Pregnancy brain and all that. “Hi there. I’m Kerri. Come on back.”
The hall is quiet and warm. Doors on either side are closed, and each bears a little watercolor of a flower over a discreet room number. No screaming colors. No fluorescent buzz.
We pause at a scale. “If you could step on,” Kerri says, and I do. Numbers blink. She writes them on a chart and doesn’t say them out loud, which I appreciate because I know that number will be changing soon.
We pass a framed print that says “breathe” in a loopy script. I want to roll my eyes and also obey, which is infuriating.
Kerri opens a door onto a room bathed in the kind of light that makes everything feel fresh and clean. There’s a machine on a rolling stand with a screen the size of a small TV, covered with a paper drape.
A counter with neatly organized gels and boxes. A chair for someone who isn’t me. A bed with a fresh sheet pulled tight and a paper cover that I know will wrinkle loudly when I sit on it.
The corner holds a basket of folded gowns and another of socks with little grippers, like I’ll be walking around in them.
“Go ahead and have a seat for just a second,” she says, and I do. My hands smooth my skirt because it gives them something to do. “The doctor will be in shortly. First, I’ll run through a few things with you.”
We go through dates and math about my last period, and I give her the day and the time and the certainty. She asks if I’ve traveled recently, and I say no. She checks a box and moves on. It’s oddly merciful.
“Any nausea?” she asks.
“Some,” I say. “Whenever it feels like it, really.”
“Vomiting?”
“A couple of times. Mostly it’s just… waves. It comes in rolls.”
She nods. “We can talk remedies if you need them. Taking a prenatal?”
“Yes.”
“Any spotting? Cramping?”
“No spotting.” Not yet. “Mild cramping sometimes. Not like my cycle. Just… different.”
“Okay. Allergies to meds?”
“Amoxicillin when I was a kid. Rash.”
“Past surgeries?”
“Appendix. College. Wisdom teeth. That’s it.”
“Family history of genetic conditions?”
I shake my head, then remember. “My father’s side has a cousin with… I don’t know. Something that affects muscle tone? I never met him. My mother’s side—nothing I know of.”
She nods and notes. “Any cats at home?” she asks, and I blink. “Litter changes can be a thing,” she explains gently.
“No cats.” No anything, I almost say. Just a plant that’s barely hanging on and a couch with a dent shaped like my ass.
“Any medications besides the prenatal?” she asks.
“Just… antacids sometimes.” I don’t say I carry them like a lifeline due to stress.
She nods and notes it down.
She taps a few more fields, then indicates to the gown on the exam table.
“Undress completely and put this on,” she says.
“Tie this in the back if you want the coverage. There’s a sheet under there, too.
I’ll step out and give you a minute. If you need anything, there’s a call button right here.
” She taps a little square like a doorbell on the wall near the bed. “Doctor Bianchi will be in shortly.”
Bianchi. I can’t pinpoint exactly why I picked her. Maybe it was Luca’s little note about discretion. Maybe it’s because she’s far enough out of town. Maybe it’s because her website didn’t feel like she was trying to sell me something.
Or maybe I picked her because it’s the only thing I feel like I can control right now.
Kerri pauses in the doorway. “You’re doing fine,” she says, like she can hear the noise in my head, and then she’s gone. The door closes with a whisper.
I look at the extra chair for the person who might sit there, and I look at the machine and the screen and the tray and the gel and the box of tissues.
I listen for the particular cadence of Luca’s footsteps, which is ridiculous because I don’t actually know if he will come, or if he can.
He said he would, and I chose someone on his list, but now I’m not sure.
What am I even doing? I’m trying to be two people at once: a woman who doesn’t need anyone and a woman who desperately wants to hold a hand.
I stand, and the paper crackles. I take off my shoes, then my skirt, then my underwear, folding them into the neat square of my blazer.
The gown is softer than I expect, not the scratchy kind from emergency rooms. I tie it behind me, and it doesn’t quite close, but it’s good enough, which feels like the thesis of this whole thing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the sheet over my lap. My knees are pale against the paper. My hands find each other and lace together, then unlatch, then lace again. I stare at the screen, black and waiting.
There’s a sound in the hall—voices low, wheels rolling. I breathe in, and it smells like that same citrus from the waiting room, but also rather medicinal.
Another breath. Another. The clock above the door ticks as time passes. I want my mother with me so badly it makes my throat tight. I want to call Luca and demand answers. Where are you? Stay away. Why aren’t you here?
A small knock raps gently against the door. My body goes very still, and I sit up straight, the paper wrinkling under me.
I tighten the sheets in both fists and find my voice.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens, and Luca slips inside before soft-closing the door with his palm. For a heartbeat, my breath catches, then it releases.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice low. “I’m late.”
“You’re here,” I answer, before I can analyze how I feel too closely.
He takes me in, and something in his face eases. It should be wrong to see Luca Conti in a room like this, but he looks exactly right. I remind myself that he has four children, so this isn’t new for him at all.
Just me.
“I couldn’t come through the front,” he says with a small tilt of his mouth. “Side entrance. Service hall. Dr. Bianchi arranged it. She promised me absolute discretion.”
I huff a laugh that’s half nerves, half relief. “Of course.”
He moves closer but stops far enough that I don’t feel cornered. “I told you I’d be here,” he says, quieter. “Thank you for letting me.”
I swallow around the knot in my throat. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m one hormone swing away from setting the building on fire.”
“Good,” he says, deadpan. “We’ll blame it on the faulty wiring.”
My laugh comes out thinly. I should not be laughing at that. I’m a federal prosecutor, and he’s a fucking crime lord.
“This is so messed up,” I mumble.
“It is,” he agrees, not pretending otherwise. “And we’re in it. So we breathe.”
He holds his hand out, and I stare at it.
“I don’t know if I want to hold it or smack it away.”
“Start with neither,” he says softly, dropping it back to his side. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
A little of the panic eases from my shoulders. I nod, small.
He gestures at the extra chair. “May I?”
I nod. He drags the chair closer and sits, forearms on his thighs, hands loose. His ankle monitor is quiet and, for a moment, so is the noise in my head.
“You look… strong,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “And beautiful,” he adds, like he can’t help himself.
I roll my eyes because it’s easier than crying. “The paper gown is really doing the heavy lifting.”
He smiles, and it reaches his eyes.
Another quiet knock pulls my back ramrod straight. He glances at me—ready?—and I manage one more nod.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens on a woman in her forties with dark hair in a neat twist and a calm, lived-in smile. “Ms. Pennino,” she says, washing her hands as she enters. “I’m Dr. Bianchi.” Her gaze flicks once to Luca, then back to me. Probably part of the agreement. “May I?”