Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Bruno
The wheelchair feels like a coffin.
I grip the armrests hard enough to make the leather creak. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes since they wheeled Antonella through those doors and nobody has told me a goddamn thing.
The clinic hallway stretches white and sterile in both directions. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils. I hate this place. Hate the way it reminds me of waking up two years ago, paralyzed and alone, my whole world ripped away while I slept.
I won't use this chair again after tonight. I don't care if my legs give out. I don't care if I have to crawl. The moment Antonella is safe, this thing goes in the fucking trash.
My knuckles are still bloody. Scar's blood. I emptied an entire magazine into his corpse and it wasn't enough. Should have made him suffer longer. Should have peeled the skin from his bones like I did to that hijacker in the warehouse.
The door stays closed.
I wheel forward and pound my fist against it. The sound echoes down the empty corridor.
"Open the fucking door!"
Nothing.
Valentino stands against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating calm he always maintains.
"You're not helping," he says.
I spin the chair to face him. "It will help me if you shut the fuck up."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't react at all. Just keeps watching me with those steady dark eyes that have seen me at my worst and never looked away.
I turn back to the door and pound again. "I want to know what's happening to my wife!"
The doctor—some grey-haired bastard named Morrison who runs this private clinic for families like ours—refused to let me in. Said I'd be in the way. Said they needed space to work.
I pointed my gun at his head.
He still said no.
Valentino had to physically restrain me while they wheeled Antonella away. Her hand slipped from mine as they pushed through the doors. Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale as death.
The blood on her dress wasn't all Scar's.
I slam my palm against the door again. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm. Good. Pain means I'm still alive. Pain means I can still feel something other than this crushing terror that's eating me from the inside out.
"Bruno."
I ignore Valentino.
"Bruno, they're doing everything they can."
"They should be doing it faster."
Footsteps echo from the end of the corridor. I wheel around, hand going to the gun at my hip before I register who it is.
Lorenzo walks toward us with Sophia at his side. My brother looks like he came straight from bed—shirt untucked, hair disheveled, no jacket. Sophia wears one of his sweaters over what looks like pajama pants. Her face is tight with worry.
"We came as fast as we could," Lorenzo says. He stops a few feet away, taking in the blood on my clothes, the wheelchair, the closed door behind me. "Any word?"
"Nothing." The word comes out like broken glass. "Fifteen minutes and nothing."
Sophia moves past Lorenzo and crouches beside my chair. She doesn't touch me but her presence is oddly grounding. "The baby?"
"I don't know." My voice cracks on the last word. I hate it. Hate showing weakness. But this is my child. My wife. Everything I never thought I'd have, everything I was certain I didn't deserve.
"Where's Pietro?" Lorenzo asks Valentino.
"Went back to Nora." Valentino pushes off the wall and moves closer to our group. "He couldn't leave her alone, not with everything that's happening."
Lorenzo nods. His jaw is tight. "The Castellanos."
"War," I say flatly. "They took my wife. There's no negotiation. No diplomacy. We burn them to the ground."
"Agreed." Lorenzo's voice is cold in a way I haven't heard since Luna's betrayal came to light. "But we need to be smart about this. Marco Castellano has connections in Detroit. If we move too fast—"
"I don't give a fuck about Detroit."
"You should." Lorenzo meets my eyes. "Because if we start a war without proper planning, we won't just be fighting the Castellanos. We'll be fighting everyone they're connected to. And right now, with Antonella in hospital and you—" He stops himself.
"Say it." I wheel closer to him. "With me in this fucking chair?"
"With you exhausted and injured," he finishes carefully. "You walked tonight. Actually walked. Valentino told me. That's incredible, Bruno. But it also means you pushed your body past its limits. You need to recover before—"
"I need my wife to be alive." I cut him off. "I need my child to survive. Everything else can wait."
The door behind me opens.
I spin the chair so fast I nearly tip it. Doctor Morrison stands in the doorway, surgical mask pulled down around his neck, grey hair damp with sweat.
"Mr. Sartori."
"Is she alive?" The words tear out of me.
"Your wife is stable." Morrison holds up a hand before I can push past him. "She has a concussion from blunt force trauma to the head, bruised ribs to her back, and significant stress to her system from the ordeal."
"The baby." I can barely breathe. "What about the baby?"
Morrison's expression shifts. Something flickers in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.
"The pregnancy is still viable," he says slowly.
"But there was some bleeding. We've managed to stop it, and the fetal heartbeat is strong.
However, the next forty-eight hours will be critical.
She needs complete bed rest. No stress. No excitement.
Any additional trauma could result in miscarriage. "
The relief hits me so hard I nearly black out. Viable. Strong heartbeat. Still alive.
"I want to see her."
"She's sleeping. The sedatives—"
"I don't care if she's sleeping." I wheel forward, forcing Morrison to step aside or be run over. "I'm not leaving her alone again."
Antonella
Light filters through my eyelids. Soft. Warm. Not the harsh fluorescent glare of that basement room.
I'm alive.
The thought surfaces slowly, pushing through layers of fog and exhaustion. My body feels heavy, like someone filled my veins with sand. Everything aches. My head, my ribs, my back.
But I'm alive.
I try to move my hand and feel resistance. Something warm presses against my stomach. Weight on the mattress beside me. The quiet sound of breathing that isn't mine.
My eyes flutter open.
The room is dim. Medical equipment beeps softly somewhere to my left. White walls. Clean sheets. The antiseptic smell tells me I'm in a clinic, not a hospital. One of the private facilities the Sartoris use.
But none of that matters.
Because Bruno is here.
He's slumped forward in his wheelchair, his head resting on the edge of my bed. His dark hair is disheveled. His hands rest on my belly, palms flat against the thin hospital gown, fingers spread wide.
He's holding our baby.
Even in sleep, he's protecting us.
Something cracks open in my chest. A sob builds in my throat but I swallow it down, not wanting to wake him.
I shift slightly, trying to get a better look at him.
His head snaps up.
Those dark eyes find mine instantly, sharp and alert despite the exhaustion. For a moment he just stares at me like he's seeing a ghost. Like he can't quite believe I'm real.
"Are you okay?" His voice is rough. Wrecked. "Does anything hurt? Should I call the doctor?"
I shake my head slowly, wincing at the throb of pain the movement causes. "I'm okay."
He doesn't look convinced. His hands haven't moved from my stomach. I can feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric, the slight tremor in his fingers.
"Bruno." I reach for him, my arm heavy and uncoordinated. "The baby. Is the baby—"
"Alive." He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. "Strong heartbeat. The doctor said the pregnancy is still viable."
Still viable.
I try to hold it together. Try to be strong. But the tears come anyway, spilling down my cheeks in hot streams that I can't control.
Our baby is alive.
"Hey. Hey." Bruno moves closer. His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears even as more fall. "Don't cry. Please don't cry. You're safe now. Both of you are safe."
But I can't stop. The fear I held back in that basement, the terror I refused to show Scarface, the desperate hope I clung to while waiting for Bruno to find me—it all comes pouring out in ugly, gasping sobs.
"I was so scared," I choke out. "I thought—I thought I'd never see you again. I thought our baby would—"
"Don't." His voice breaks. "Don't say it."
I look up at him through blurred vision and freeze.
Bruno is crying.
Tears track down his face, cutting through the exhaustion and the blood and the hard mask he always wears. His jaw trembles. His shoulders shake. He's crying.
"I'm sorry." The words burst out of him like they've been trapped too long.
"I'm so fucking sorry. I should have protected you better.
Should have had more guards. Should have been there myself instead of letting you go alone.
You were in that basement for hours and I couldn't find you fast enough and they hurt you—they hurt you because of me—"
"Bruno—"
"And the other night." He talks over me, the words tumbling out faster now, desperate and raw.
"When you told me you loved me. I didn't say it back.
I kissed you and I held you but I didn't say the words because I'm a fucking coward who doesn't know how to—I don't know how to do this.
I don't know how to be what you need. I've spent two years pushing everyone away and then you showed up and you wouldn't leave and you made me feel things I thought I'd never feel again and I—"
His voice cracks. He presses his forehead against mine, his tears mixing with mine on my cheeks.
"I love you." The words come out broken. Shattered. "I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you more than I've ever loved anything in my entire miserable life. And I almost lost you. I almost lost both of you because I was too slow, too weak, too fucking broken to keep you safe."
"You're not broken." I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. "You found me."