Chapter 22 Luca #3
“Dante’s right. I don’t like to say it, but he is.
” I rub my fingers over my temple. “There’s too much going on right now.
If we try to move and we fail, it will only make the cracks in the organization worse.
But when Dante gives the order, we’ll eliminate everyone involved.
Not just Alessandro. The whole fucking operation. "
Romeo nods slowly. "You sound like you're looking forward to it."
"I am." I sit back, my jaw working. "I want to hurt someone, Romeo. And Alessandro seems like a good place to start."
He doesn't ask why or push for details about what happened between Giulia and me today. He just nods and changes the subject to business. And I'm grateful for it.
The next week is a blur of violence and work.
The Benedetti family makes a move on our territory in Sunset Park, and I handle it with a brutality that makes even our own soldiers nervous.
Two of their guys end up in the hospital.
One of them might not walk again. I don't feel bad about it.
A restaurant owner decides he doesn't want to pay protection anymore and thinks he can switch allegiance to the Colombo family.
I pay him a visit at closing time and explain—very clearly—why that would be a mistake. He pays up, with interest.
A shipment goes missing at the docks, and I track down the crew responsible within forty-eight hours. They're stealing from us, selling our product on the side, pocketing the profits. I make an example of the ringleader to ensure no one else will be stupid enough to try the same thing.
And Romeo watches all of this with increasing concern.
"You're going to get yourself killed," he says after I come back from the docks with blood on my knuckles and a split lip from where one of the thieves got a lucky hit in. "You're taking too many risks. Being too aggressive."
"I'm doing my job."
"You're doing more than your job. You're looking for a fight."
"So what if I am?" I wash the blood off my hands in the bathroom sink, watching the water run pink.
"The family needs to project strength right now.
You said it yourself—people are questioning Dante's authority because of my marriage.
I'm making sure they remember why it's a bad idea to question us. I can handle myself."
"That's not the point." He leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "The point is that you're acting like a man with a death wish. And I need to know if that's what this is."
I dry my hands and turn to face him. "I'm not suicidal, Romeo."
"Then what are you?"
"I'm fine," I snap. "Just doing what needs to be done."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't push. "Dante wants to see you tomorrow morning," he says finally. "Nine sharp. Don't be late."
"I won't."
He leaves, and I'm alone with my reflection in the mirror. I look like shit. There are dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless nights, and a bruise is forming on my jaw. Cuts on my knuckles that are going to scar.
I look like a man who's falling apart.
And I am. I don't go home that night. Or the next night. Or the night after that. I sleep at the office, telling myself it's because I'm too busy to make the drive back to Brooklyn. But the truth is, I can't face her.
I can't face the hurt in her eyes or the way she looks at me like I'm breaking her heart. I can't face the knowledge that I'm the one doing it.
On the fourth night, my phone rings at eleven in the evening. Giulia's name flashes on the screen, and my first instinct is to ignore it, let it go to voicemail, and deal with whatever she wants in the morning. But something stops me.
Maybe it's the lateness of the hour, or the fact that she never calls me. Whatever the reason, I answer. "What."
"Luca." Her voice sounds all wrong—shaky and scared, threaded with pain. "I need you to come home."
Every muscle in my body goes tense. "What's wrong?"
"I'm—I'm bleeding. And cramping. And I don't know what to do. I called the doctor's emergency line, but they said I should go to the hospital and I don't—I can't—"
I'm already moving, grabbing my keys and heading for the door. "I'm on my way. Don't move. Don't do anything. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Luca, I'm scared—"
"I know. I'm coming. Just hold on."
I hang up and run.
The drive from the Ciresa house to mine has never felt longer. Every red light is an eternity, and every slow driver is an obstacle I want to ram off the road. Something's wrong with the baby. The thought makes my chest constrict with a fear so intense it's almost paralyzing.
I can't lose this child, the tiny person whose heartbeat I heard just a week ago. I can't lose her.
The realization hits me like a freight train. Despite everything, I can't lose Giulia. I need her to be okay. I need her to be safe. The alternative is unthinkable.
I make it to the brownstone in fifteen minutes, breaking every traffic law in the process. The front door is unlocked. I take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.
I find her in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with her back against the tub, her face pale and tear-streaked.
There's blood on her nightgown. Not a lot, but enough to make my stomach drop.
"Giulia." I drop to my knees beside her, my hands hovering over her.
I'm afraid to touch her. "Are you okay? Where does it hurt? "
"My stomach. It's cramping. And the bleeding—Luca, what if something's wrong with the baby? What if I'm losing—"
"You're not losing anything." I try to sound certain, even though I have no way of knowing if that’s true. "We're going to the hospital right now. They're going to check you out and make sure everything's okay."
"I'm scared."
"I know." I help her to her feet, supporting her weight when her legs threaten to give out. "I've got you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
We make it to the car, and I drive to the nearest hospital with the same reckless speed I used to get home. Giulia is silent beside me, her hand pressed to her stomach and her breathing shallow and uneven.
"Why do you even care?" The question comes out of nowhere, her voice quiet and cracked. "You don't want this baby. You've made that clear. So why does it matter if I lose it?"
I feel like she hit me. "That's not—" I have to stop and swallow against the tightness in my throat. "That's not true."
"You said this marriage was just an obligation. That the baby was just a consequence. That you don't love me and you never will."
"Giulia—"
"So why do you care?" She turns to look at me, and the devastation in her eyes is almost more than I can bear. "Why are you here? Why are you driving like a maniac to get me to the hospital? Why do you look so scared?"
"Because—" The words stick in my throat. "Because we're already married. Losing the baby won't change that. But—"
"But what?"
But I can't lose you. The thought of something happening to you or the baby makes me want to tear the world apart.
But I'm terrified, and I don't know how to admit it. I don’t know how I feel about anything any longer. I’m angry and hurt and betrayed, and I fucking love you anyway, and I feel like a madman because of it.
"But you're my responsibility," I say instead, gritting the words out between my teeth. "And I take care of what's mine."
It's the wrong thing to say. I can see it in the way her face crumbles. She turns away from me and stares out the window.
We pull up to the emergency room entrance, and I'm out of the car before it's fully stopped, running around to help her out. "I can walk," she says, but her voice is weak.
"I don't care." I scoop her up in my arms, ignoring her protest, and carry her through the automatic doors.
The nurse at the intake desk takes one look at us—at Giulia's pale face and the blood on her nightgown—and immediately calls for a wheelchair.
"How far along?" she asks as another nurse helps Giulia into the chair.
"Fourteen weeks," Giulia says quietly.
"Any pain? Cramping?"
"Yes. And bleeding. Not a lot, but—"
"We're going to take you back right now and get you checked out." The nurse looks at me. "Are you the father?"
"Yes."
"Come with me."
They wheel Giulia through a set of double doors, and I follow, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
They take her to a room and help her onto a bed. A doctor appears, young and competent-looking, with kind eyes. "I'm Dr. Martinez," she says, pulling on gloves. "Let's see what's going on."
The examination feels like it takes hours. The doctor asks questions, presses on Giulia's abdomen, and checks the bleeding. Every second is agony. Finally, she pulls out a portable ultrasound machine.
"Let's take a look at the baby," she says, squirting gel onto Giulia's stomach. The screen flickers to life, and I hold my breath. Please. Please let the baby be okay. Please let them both be okay.
The doctor moves the wand, searching, and the seconds stretch into eternity. And then—
The heartbeat fills the room, rapid and strong.
"There we go," Dr. Martinez says with a smile. "Baby looks good. Heartbeat is strong. No signs of distress."
The relief is so intense it nearly brings me to my knees.
"The bleeding?" Giulia asks, her voice shaking.
"Likely just some spotting, which can be normal in the second trimester. But to be safe, I want to keep you under observation for a few hours. Make sure the bleeding stops and there are no other complications."
"But the baby's okay?"
"The baby's fine." Dr. Martinez removes the wand and wipes off the gel. "Try to rest. We'll check on you in a couple of hours."
She leaves, and suddenly Giulia and I are alone. She's crying, and I don't know what to do or how to comfort her. I definitely don't know how to explain the terror that just ripped through me at the thought of losing her.
"Giulia—"
"You can go." She turns away from me. "I'm fine. The baby's fine. You don't have to stay."
"I'm not leaving."
"Why not?" She finally looks at me, and the emptiness in her eyes is worse than the hurt. "You've made it clear you don't want to be here. That this is all just an obligation. So go. Do your job. I'll be fine on my own."
"I'm not leaving," I repeat, more firmly this time.
"Luca—"
"I'm not fucking leaving, Giulia." The words come out harsher than I intended, but I can't seem to control my voice. "So stop asking me to."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to understand, to reconcile my words with my actions. Trying to make sense of a man who claims not to care but looks like his world just almost ended. Finally, she turns away, closing her eyes.
"Fine," she whispers. "Stay."
So I do. I pull a chair up beside her bed and sit down, and I don't leave.
Not when the nurses come to check on her or when they bring her water and crackers, and not when the hours stretch into early morning and she finally falls into an exhausted sleep.
I sit there and watch her breathe, and I try not to think about how close I came to losing her. Try not to think about what that means.
Try not to admit—even to myself—that maybe I'm not as indifferent as I've been pretending to be.