Salvatore

29. Salvatore

29

SALVATORE

I pace the emergency waiting room, Lorenzo’s guard having delivered a fresh suit, along with an update that Catarina was woken and informed not to enter the house. But that was over a fucking hour ago.

“Sir?” The nurse who called security on me earlier approaches with a man in scrubs.

“Salvatore?” He outstretches a hand. “I’m doctor Alan Griffiths. I’m told you requested an update on the young woman who was brought in. Are you family?”

“Her fiancé.” I clasp his offering, on the tip of the fucking edge with impatience.

“Oh.” He shoots a questioning glance to the nurse. “That’s good to know. We have very few details on file for her.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” I release his hand before I break it.

“Well, she’s stable.” He smiles with brittle reassurance. “The procedure went smoothly. And we’ll be able to take you to see her as soon as she wakes from sedation.”

“I want specifics.” I’ve rerun the night’s events a million times, trying to figure out how the fuck Ivy could’ve fallen anywhere, let alone sustained puncture wounds because of it.

“Our main concern was her abdominal and flank injuries and the potential for intestinal perforation. But we went in laparoscopically and determined there was only a minor intestinal graze and superficial damage to the muscle wall which required minimal suture repairs. We then cleaned and sutured the remaining four puncture sites without issue.”

I wait for sweet relief to sink in. It doesn’t fucking show. “Do you know how her injuries were inflicted?”

“Um, not entirely, sir.” He gives another cautious glance to the nurse. “But given their size, nature, and number, police have been informed.”

I want to kill him, wrap my hands around his motherfucking neck and squeeze until my fingers ache. “When will they arrive?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Given the early hour, I’d say it won’t be until after the day shift takes over.”

That buys me some time. Not a lot. But enough.

“What else?” I bark.

Clearly there’s more, seeing how he’s shifting from foot to foot like a fucking clown.

“I, ah.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to address your fiancé’s concerns about a possible pregnancy, and how her injuries may affect the fetus.”

I stare at him. Stare right through him.

“Although her abdominal wound wasn’t a reproductive risk, we did go ahead and run a blood test which confirmed her HCG levels are consistent with early pregnancy.” Ivy’s pregnant? “Surgery during the first trimester isn’t advisable when the danger of miscarriage are high. But we will keep an eye on her and do our best to make sure no undue stress is placed on her or the baby.” Ivy’s fucking pregnant? “Right now we’re focused on helping her recover as quickly as possible. Which is where you come in. Unfortunately, from my understanding, either due to the pain of her injuries or other reasons, we haven’t been provided with her name, which limits our access to important medical records that could be critical for her ongoing care.”

The woman beside him raises an electronic tablet and poises her finger to type. “What is your fiancée’s name, sir?”

Ivy’s goddamn fucking pregnant?

I scrub a rough hand over my face, fighting to keep my fury in check.

“Sir?” the woman asks. “If you can please provide her name we’ll be able to access her health history, medications, and any allergies on her record that will ensure we make the most informed decisions for her recovery.”

She’s having a goddamn motherfucking baby?

“Sir?” the doctor prods.

I snap my gaze to his, my stare lethal. “I’ve already gone through this with your admin staff. I can’t give you those details.”

The doctor’s mouth works like a fish, all gaping and spluttering lips. “I don’t understand.”

I’m sure he does.

They know who I am. I’ve seen the staff whispering as they gawk. And although I didn’t catch anyone informing the security guard at the nearby doors, his beady stare and the constant hand on his holstered gun is a blatant giveaway he’s up to speed.

I might not have made a name for myself yet, however I’m assuming Lorenzo’s reputation proceeds him in Virginia Beach enough to have rubbed off on his nephew.

“Sir.” The doctor recovers from his floundering. “If this is a financial issue?—”

“Call me sir one more fucking time and you’re going to be drinking through a straw for the unforeseeable future.” I cut my gaze to the nurse. “You already know my name is Salvatore Costa. I’ve given you my billing details. I’ll handle the medical expenses.”

“This is about your fiancée’s care,” she argues. “We need to make informed decisions.”

“You’re informed enough,” I snarl. “Now take me to her.”

The doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s too soon?—”

I step closer, getting in his personal space. “Let’s not pretend you don’t know what my family are capable of.”

He stiffens. The nurse beside him follows suit.

“If I need to spell it out—you can’t get her name because her safety is in jeopardy. And you will take me to her now for the same reason. Understood?”

He stands taller, as if finally finding his balls. “She’s yet to wake from sedation. She won’t be returned to the ward until?—”

“Take. Me. To. Her.” I enunciate the words slowly, far more patiently than my restraint should allow. But I’m pretty sure it’s the venom in my tone that has him blinking in startled panic.

Finally he gives a subtle nod. “Follow me.”

I’m escorted through the hospital, the chaotic hum of the ER fading as we pass curtained off bays where patients moan and complain. Nurses hustle by, barking instructions, while the scent of antiseptic grows suffocating.

A sharp turn takes us past imaging rooms with warning signs under fluorescent lights until finally, the hall opens into a quieter space, where rows of beds are lined against the walls, curtains drawn around some, while nurses check vitals on patients stirring from anesthesia.

The doctor leads me to a small portable work station where a female nurse stands beside a bed with a sleeping goddess resting beneath a crisp white sheet in a hospital gown.

Ivy’s regained some of her coloring, her left arm now bandaged in two places, her beauty unsurpassed given the circumstances.

She moans, her eyes remaining closed as she murmurs, “I’m so tired.”

The nurse chuckles. “She’s said that five times already. But hey, I got a name. Thank anesthesia withdrawal for the win.” With a celebratory shoulder shimmy that bumps the woman up my mental hit list, she hands her tablet to the doctor. “Meet the lovely Ivy Diaz.”

Griffiths grabs the device, his anxious gaze on me.

“Did you add those details to your system?” I snarl.

The nurse slowly loses her obnoxiously bouncy energy. “Yes. Just now… Is that a problem?”

My nostrils flare as I cut my attention back to the bed.

“I’m so tired.” Ivy shifts uncomfortably, her eyes stretching wide for brief seconds before they drift closed again.

The nurse shuffles forward. “It’s normal, honey. It’s just the sedation wearing off.”

Ivy groans, her eyes shooting open to take in the room as if she’s a junkie trying to see through a major binge. “Did the surgery go well?”

“Yes.” The nurse pats her sheet-covered thigh. “Everything was perfect.”

“Good.” Ivy relaxes into a gentle smile, her eyes softly closing while she nods in approval. “I’m so tired.”

Something’s not right about her.

I approach the side of her bed, peering down at her with fingers that twitch to touch.

She wiggles slightly as if in discomfort. “Did the surgery go well?”

I shoot a threatening glance at the doctor. “What’s wrong with her?” She’s fucking glitching.

“Nothing.” He hands the tablet back over the bed to the nurse. “It’s a completely normal reaction when waking from anesthesia.”

“She’s already asked ten times and will probably ask another ten more.” The nurse focuses on the heart rate monitor above the bed and taps something into her device. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Just rest,” the doctor states. “You’ll wake up soon enough.”

Ivy nods, her eyes continuing to go from serial-killer wide to baked shut. “Can I see the wounds?”

“You already did, sweetie.” The nurse taps notes into her tablet. “Are you hungry? Can I get you a popsicle to suck on?”

“Mmm.” Ivy smiles. “Please.” She rests her cheek into the pillow, her long lashes delicate against perfect skin.

“I’ll go get you one.” The nurse places her tablet on the portable station and walks away.

How the fuck did this happen?

She’d been in her room. Quiet. Presumably asleep.

I stayed up to make sure. I didn’t enter the basement until I hadn’t heard a noise from her in over an hour. “How long will this last?”

The doctor rounds the bed, approaching Ivy from the other side. “Sometimes it’s a few minutes. Others last up to an hour.”

“She can’t stay here.” Not like this. Not goddamn pharma-stoned. “We need to leave.”

“S-sir,” he splutters. “She just had abdominal surgery. She can’t go anywhere.”

“I beg to differ.” I glide my hands into my pockets, fighting back the visual of his dead body at my feet. “But please tell me how you plan to stop me.”

He blanches. “It simply isn’t possible. She has to be?—”

“Monitored? I can arrange that. What else would she need?”

He stares as if I’m deranged.

Astute assessment.

“She would have to be observed by a physician.” He raises his feeble voice. “But she’s still sedated. She can’t give consent?—”

“Forgive me for not getting my point across clearly.” I straighten my shoulders, my smile all teeth and raging aggression. “Ivy isn’t safe here. And if Ivy isn’t safe, that means you aren’t either. Because if anything happens to her I’ll destroy everything you hold dear. Starting with those money-making hands of yours.”

Terror stares back at me. Terror from a fully-grown, professionally capable man who knows his way around a scalpel.

“Did the surgery go well?” Ivy mumbles, raising the bedsheet. “Can I see my wounds?”

We ignore her, opting to maintain a stare-off Griffiths loses the battle in holding.

“She would have to be monitored closely.” He lowers his gaze. “Especially in the first twenty-four hours.”

“That part isn’t a problem.” I pull out my cell and text Lorenzo’s personal physician. The guy brought Matthew back from the dead not long ago, so I know he’s qualified. “What else?”

“If you can wait, I’ll arrange some pain medication?—”

“We’re not waiting. I can get my hands on drugs.”

His chin raises, his distaste for my station in life obvious. “You’ll need to sign an AMA. You’re taking her against medical advice.”

“I’m not signing shit. How restricted is she with movement?”

He huffs in frustration. “It’s beneficial that she walks at least a little over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours to lower the risk of clotting. Twisting, bending, and abdominal movements need to be discouraged for at least the first week. Then there’s her gluteal and arm wounds to be mindful of.”

“I’m hungry,” Ivy murmurs, her voice losing some of the zooted tone. “I could eat an entire rotisserie chicken.”

The doctor stares at me, as if weighing the weight of the world. “Can you promise these injuries won’t be inflicted upon her again?”

I incline my head. “Once I figure out how the fuck she got them.”

His lips purse, his mental debate loud despite his silence. Then finally he reaches for the nurses’ station, retrieves the tablet, then walks around the bed toward me as the nurse returns with a bright red popsicle.

“Here you go, Ms. Diaz.” The woman grabs for a remote on the side of the bed. “Are you ready to sit up a little?” The nurse dotes over Ivy, inclining the head of the bed and helping her to get upright as Doctor Griffiths sidles up beside me and points at a line of text under a Notes heading.

Patient reports injuries were caused by metal knitting needles.

I read it twice, making sure I’m not hallucinating, while Ivy moans enthusiastically around a red icy pole.

“Get me a wheelchair,” I growl.

It takes less than five minutes to get Ivy settled in my rental, her anesthesia-addled smile beaming back at me as I slide behind the wheel.

She’s still got the last remaining dredges of her popsicle, her lips stained red from the coloring. Given different circumstances I would laugh at how she’s a perfect blend of drug-addled erotism.

But not today.

I drive from the hospital parking lot a hell of a lot more carefully than when I arrived, cautious of my gown-wearing queen's comfort and my volatile temper. I’m one tailgating idiot away from a road-rage incident that will make national news headlines.

“I was stabbed…” she says with a dreamy smile. “Multiple times… and survived… How badass is that?”

“Very badass, troublemaker. Want to tell me how it happened?”

Her smile fades as confusion mars her brow. She blinks a couple times then shakes her head with a flimsy chuckle. “No. I think I fell.”

I grit my teeth. “Fell where, Ivy?”

She sucks on her popsicle, the act seeming erotically choreographed to buy herself time. It fucking works. I could watch her deep throat that thing for the rest of my life.

“The back stairs,” she says around the wooden stick. “I wanted to sit by the pool and it was dark.” She licks the last remaining red liquid remnants and closes her eyes, nestling her cheek against the headrest. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Lorenzo’s”

Those dark eyes snap open. “ No .” She sits straighter, as if the sedative blinders have finally been removed. “I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

She stares at me, lips parted, breaths increasing. “Please, Salvatore. Take me anywhere else. Drop me at a shelter or a bus depot.”

“A fucking bus depot? Really?” I meet her gaze with a raised brow. “Why don’t you want to go to Lorenzo’s? You’ve stayed for weeks without complaint.”

“You’re the one who told me I’d worn out my welcome.” She jerks her attention to her side window, then lowers it to the door handle.

“Don’t even think about a tuck and roll from a moving fucking vehicle,” I seethe. “You might be numb at the moment, but that won’t last forever, and I swear to God my punishment for you putting your life in danger will be more painful than hitting the asphalt at sixty miles.”

“I’m not going to jump.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Then answer the fucking question. Are you worried about the increased threat from my uncle or the one from my mother after she attempted to stab you to death?”

She turns rigid, her adamant attention on the door handle making me motherfucking nervous.

“When did you find out?” she whispers.

“Ten minutes ago when your surgeon showed me the notes on your file. Evidently, you’re a live-feed spoiler alert while recovering from sedation.”

She winces, the sadness in her profile cutting me at the knees.

“So you hadn’t been aware of her plan?” Her voice is barely audible.

Aware of her plan?

Aware of her fucking plan?

“I hadn’t been aware you’d stepped foot in the fucking basement, Ivy. What do you mean, was I aware of her plan?”

She hangs her head. “I don’t know. I just…”

“Just what?” I take two-second glances at the traffic in between trying to read what’s going on behind that defeated expression of hers. “Did you think I had something to do with you getting stabbed? Is that why you begged me not to hurt you last night?”

Her head remains downcast.

Jesus fucking Christ . That is the reason.

She thought I wanted her dead. And I can’t even blame her for the fucked up assumption because life has rolled her so many goddamn times I’d feel the same way if our positions were switched.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my hatred for the world growing far beyond the insurmountable height it had already reached. “Did she say something to make you think that?”

Ivy shakes her head and scrunches her nose with a sniff. “Can we talk about this later? The anesthesia still has me in a chokehold.”

Just like her misery is having an effect on me.

I force my focus back to the road before impatience can get the better of me. I want to know everything. Why she was in the basement. How she could get close enough for Adena to attack.

The questions pummel me, each unanswered strike making my fury rise. But for ten quiet minutes, the world narrows to the sound of tires humming against asphalt and the whisper of Ivy’s gown when she shifts positions while the first rays of sunrise paint the horizon.

If she thinks the conversation about my mother was unsettling, I have a feeling the next topic is going to be a hell of a lot more unfortunate.

“The doctor said your surgery went well.” I break the silence as I pause before the opening gates of Lorenzo’s property. “They were worried about an intestinal perforation but there was only a graze.”

She stares straight ahead and nods, the movement slow and detached. “I suppose I should’ve asked about that already.”

“Your other wounds were cleaned and sutured. You had six in total.”

Her hollow nodding continues during the slow drive onto the property, her hands tangled in her lap as she picks at a fingernail.

I pull to a stop in front of the mansion, and she’s already busy unclasping her belt and reaching for the door.

“Wait.” I cut the engine. “The doctor mentioned something else.”

She stills, continuing to starve me of her attention, her chin hitching incrementally.

“He said you had concerns.”

Her posture straightens. Again, it’s slow, a gradual motion while her lips close.

I swear to God she holds her breath.

I release my belt and scrub an agitated palm over my mouth. “He wanted you to know your injuries weren’t a reproductive threat.” I don’t know how to do this—the comforting shit, the compassion—especially when her stiffness doesn’t falter, her chest remains unmoving. I should’ve told the doctor to relay the information while I focused on things I’m good at, like pissing off my family or starting shit that doesn’t need to be started. “They did blood tests.”

“And?” she whispers, the bat of her lashes quickening, her olive complexion losing its healthy hue.

I wait, hoping she’ll look at me, needing to read her eyes instead of the rigidity in her profile. But she doesn’t glance my way. She continues staring at the mansion, pretending she’s fearless, utilizing a facade I once thought was real.

Now that fortitude is flimsy at best, and somehow her fragility only makes me want her more.

“Ivy, you’re pregnant.”