Julia
Chapter Thirty Seven
The hospital looks different in daylight.
Last night, everything blurred beneath flashing lights and blood and voices I could not follow.
This morning, the halls are full of ordinary movement.
Nurses at computers. A man carrying coffee.
A woman in a coat too thick for this time of year filling out paperwork.
Someone laughing softly near the elevators, which feels strangely out of place here.
Ricardo keeps one hand at my back as we walk.
He does not rush me, though I know he wants to. He was already with Dante this morning, and he has been keeping updated over the phone constantly, but he would still rather be with Dante.
Two of Ricardo’s people walk ahead of us. Two more trail behind. And I know there's more I don't see. I know that it's necessary, and I suppose it's time I accept that this is my life now. Now that I'm carrying Ricardo's child, I'm always going to need protection.
But it's not quite so easy to accept.
Ricardo’s hand shifts slightly on my back.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m in a hospital.”
His jaw clenches. “You feel sick?”
“I'm fine.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Afraid?”
I look down the hall toward the wing where Dante is recovering.
“Yes.”
His hand presses once, firm and warm. “So am I.”
That should frighten me more than it does. Ricardo admitting fear should make everything feel more terrifying. But oddly enough, it makes me feel better. Like I'm not the only one.
One of the nurses from last night meets us near a side corridor. Her name is Amber, I think. Or Amy. I cannot remember, and I am too tired to care at the moment.
“Mr. Conti,” she says, then looks at me. “Miss O’Brien.”
Ricardo’s voice is low. “Is everything arranged?”
“Yes. Dr. Mehta is available now. She’ll see you privately.”
My stomach turns.
Ricardo feels me tense.
He bends his head closer to mine. “You do not have to do this alone.”
“I know.”
“Would you prefer Victoria?”
For a second, I do.
Then I look at him.
“No. You.”
His expression changes, and the anger that has been in his eyes since last night softens.
“Then me.”
The exam room is small and quiet. A paper-covered table sits against one wall, but I stay in the chair beside Ricardo because I am not here for a full appointment. Not yet. I am here because a plastic test on his bathroom counter changed my life, and now I just need to confirm it.
Dr. Mehta is kind yet direct. She asks when my last period was. I give the best answer I can. She asks about nausea, dizziness, pain, bleeding. Ricardo goes utterly still beside me at the last word.
“No,” I say quickly. “No bleeding.”
His hand closes around mine.
They take blood. They take urine. They tell us the urine test will be quick, the bloodwork a little longer but more accurate. I nod through all of it, feeling strangely detached from my own body until Ricardo lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles.
A few minutes later, Dr. Mehta comes back in.
She closes the door behind her.
My hand tightens around Ricardo’s before she says anything.
“The urine test is positive,” she says gently. “We’ll confirm levels with bloodwork, but yes, Miss O’Brien. You’re pregnant.”
The word is very different when she says it.
This is nothing like a pregnancy test in Ricardo's bathroom.
This is real. With a chart and a doctor.
And Ricardo's breath leaving him. It's barely audible, but unmistakable.
I look at him.
His face is still, but his eyes are not. His eyes are full of too much. Wonder and tenderness so fierce it almost hurts.
Ricardo pulls me into him carefully, one arm around my shoulders, his mouth against my hair.
Dr. Mehta gives us a moment to absorb the news, then explains what comes next. Follow-up appointment. Prenatal bloodwork. Vitamins. Rest when possible. Call immediately if there is pain or bleeding or if I cannot keep fluids down.
She says the nausea may be pregnancy, shock, or both, and I almost laugh because of course my body refuses to give one simple explanation for anything.
Ricardo listens to every word.
I know because his questions are precise.
How soon for blood results.
Which doctor should follow up.
What warning signs matter.
What I can eat.
What medications are safe.
Whether stress can harm the pregnancy.
At that, I look down.
Dr. Mehta answers gently, but I only hear pieces. Hydration. Rest. Support. One day at a time.
One day.
I can barely imagine the next hour.
When we leave the room, Ricardo keeps hold of my hand.
The hallway feels longer now.
“You need to tell them,” I say.
He looks down at me.
“The family,” I clarify, though he does not need me to. “They need to know.”
His jaw clenches. “I can keep it quiet until you are ready.”
“They need to know the stakes.”
“They know enough.”
“No.” I stop walking, and he stops with me. “They know Harrison sent men after me. They know Dante was shot. But if you are all making decisions today, if Mario is making decisions, if you are asking for help from people who may change everything, then they need to know all of it.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.” My voice shakes. “But it has to be done.”
His thumb moves over my knuckles.
“All right.”
The family is gathered in the private waiting room near Dante’s recovery room.
Victoria sees us first and stands.
Mario’s gaze moves from me to Ricardo and back again. Lorenzo, Diego, Matteo, Tomasso, Edoardo, and Alessio are all there, worn down by the night.
Ricardo keeps my hand in his.
He brings me beside him, close enough that his arm brushes mine, close enough that I can feel the steady warmth of him while my heart beats too fast.
“We have something to tell you,” he says.
The room quiets.
Victoria’s eyes soften because she already knows, and somehow that helps.
Ricardo looks down at me.
Letting it be mine if I want it.
My throat tightens, but I manage the words.
“I’m pregnant.”
For one suspended second, no one moves.
Then Victoria covers her mouth, tears filling her eyes.
“Oh, Julia.”
The softness in her voice nearly undoes me.
Mario closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, his gaze is on Ricardo. Something passes between the brothers that I do not fully understand, but I feel the weight of it.
Grief is still very much in the room, and so is fear. It still sits with us, as Dante is still unconscious a few doors away.
But for a moment, there is something else too.
Mario steps forward first.
“Congratulations,” he says quietly.
The word is simple.
It does not erase anything that has happened, but it's something else entirely.
Ricardo’s hand tightens around mine.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough.
Mario’s mouth softens slightly. “You’re having a child.”
Ricardo looks at me then, and the expression on his face makes my chest ache.
“Yes,” he says. “We are.”
Victoria crosses the room and takes both my hands. “Congratulations,” she whispers.
I try to answer, but the tears come too fast.
She pulls me into a hug, and I let her. For a few seconds, I stand there with my face near her shoulder, breathing through the strange, impossible mix of fear and relief and something that feels dangerously close to happiness.
“I know the timing is…” I start.
Victoria draws back and shakes her head before I can finish. “The timing is exactly when it was meant to be. The baby is still good news.”
Diego exhales and drags one hand over his jaw, staring at Ricardo with a look that is almost disbelief.
“Congratulazioni, fratello,” he says, pulling Ricardo into a hug.
“Auguri, Zio,” Matteo says. “Congratulazioni a entrambi.”
He hugs me, a lot gentler than he does Ricardo.
Tomasso steps forward and pulls Ricardo into a brief, hard embrace. “Congratulations.”
Each one of them does the same, offering congratulations to both of us, despite everything else going on.
Ricardo’s arm slides more securely around my waist once everyone has had their turn, and I let myself lean into him.
Victoria wipes beneath her eyes, then gives me a small smile.
“A baby,” she says, almost to herself. “Another one.”
Diego looks between her and me, then toward Mario. “This family is becoming alarmingly domestic.”
Mario gives him a look. “Choose your next words carefully.”
“I said alarmingly. I did not say badly.”
While his family bickers around us, Ricardo bends his head, his mouth close to my temple.
“All right?” he asks softly.
I nod.
This time, I almost mean it.
Ricardo bends his head toward me. “Do you want to see him now?”
Dante.
The reason we are here.
The reason I forced myself through the test and the telling.
“Yes.”
Ricardo leads me down the hall.
Dante’s room is dim.
He is still unconscious.
Still pale.
Still surrounded by machines that make soft, steady sounds beside the bed. The sight of him hurts as badly as it did the first time, but there is a strange relief in it too.
He is here.
He is breathing.
He made it through the night.
I sit beside him and take his hand carefully around the IV.
“Hi,” I whisper.
Nothing changes.
Ricardo stands on the other side of the bed, one hand resting on the rail, his eyes on his son.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
I study Dante’s face, the bruising, the slackness of sedation, the faint movement of his chest beneath the blanket.
I think of him in the car, watching me pretend I was fine.
Of knowing better and handing me the water.
I think of him pushing me down behind the counter before I could even understand what was going on.
“You’re going to be so annoying when you wake up,” I say softly.
Ricardo’s gaze lifts to mine.
I keep my eyes on Dante.
“You’ll pretend this was all very inconvenient. You’ll hate everyone fussing over you. You’ll probably complain about the hospital food.”
My voice cracks.
“And then I’m going to have to yell at you.”
Ricardo looks down at his son, and something close to pain moves across his face.
“I’m going to yell at you because you scared me,” I whisper. “Because you saved me again, and I’m grateful, but I’m also angry. Because why did you have to get shot doing it?”
The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.
I wipe my cheek with my shoulder because I do not want to let go of his hand.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say. “You don't get to just sleep through the whole thing. Wake up and take your lickin’, Dante.”
Ricardo lowers his head.
His hand moves to Dante’s hair.
“Listen to her,” he says. “She makes excellent points.”
A broken laugh slips out of me.
It turns into another tear.
Dante does not move.
I sit there anyway, holding his hand with both of mine now, letting the room fall quiet around us.
Then his fingers twitch.
So lightly I think I imagine it.
I freeze.
“Ricardo.”
He looks at Dante’s hand.
It happens again.
A small movement beneath my fingers.
Ricardo is around the bed in an instant, one hand braced near Dante’s shoulder.
“Dante,” he says.
Dante’s eyelids flutter.
My breath stops.
He drifts for a second, somewhere between sleep and whatever heavy medication they have given him. Then his eyes open just enough to find the room.
Find Ricardo.
Then me.
His mouth moves.
No sound comes out.
I lean closer. “Don’t try to talk.”
He ignores me because of course he does.
His voice is barely there, hoarse.
“Safe.”
The sob that breaks out of me is impossible to stop.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m safe.”
His eyes shift toward Ricardo.
Ricardo bends closer, his hand in Dante’s hair again.
“You did well,” he says. His voice breaks on the last word. “Riposa adesso, figlio mio.”
Dante’s eyes close again.
A nurse steps in a moment later, checks the monitor, checks Dante, says it is a good sign, that brief waking can happen, that he still needs rest. I nod through all of it because my heart is still pounding hard.
When the nurse leaves, I sit back down beside him.
Ricardo stands beside me and rests one hand on my shoulder.
I look at Dante’s face, then down at our joined hands.
“I’m safe,” I whisper again, in case some part of him can still hear me. “You made sure.”
A soft knock sounds at the door.
Ricardo turns.
Lorenzo stands in the opening, his expression carefully unreadable.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says.
Ricardo’s hand tightens once on my shoulder.
Lorenzo looks from him to Dante, then back again.
“We received an answer.”