Chapter 17
Paola
I sat beside his hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall with mechanical precision. The ventilator breathed for him whilst his lung healed. Doctors said they'd start bringing him out of sedation tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours felt like twenty-four years.
My hand wrapped around his, careful of the IV line taped to his wrist. His fingers were warm. Alive. That had to be enough.
The nausea hit without warning. I bolted for his private bathroom, barely made it to the toilet before retching.
Nothing came up—I hadn't eaten since yesterday—but my stomach twisted anyway.
Morning sickness. Except it was three in the afternoon and morning sickness didn't care about time zones or circumstances.
I rinsed my mouth, splashed cold water on my face. The mirror showed a stranger: dark circles, pale skin, tangled hair. Six weeks ago I'd been an art teacher. Now I was a mafia wife carrying the child of an unconscious Don.
When I emerged, Giulio stood near Cesare's bed. He'd brought coffee in a paper cup, the smell turning my stomach again.
"You should rest, Mrs. Monti. Go home. Shower. Sleep."
"I'm not leaving him."
"He's not waking up for hours. The doctors said—"
"I don't care what they said. I'm staying."
Giulio studied me with eyes that had seen too much violence, too much loss. Then he nodded once and took position outside the door. Guard and friend both.
I settled back into the chair, exhausted down to my bones but unable to sleep. Couldn't close my eyes without seeing Cesare go down, blood spreading across his shirt whilst Viktor stood over him with that gun.
The ventilator hissed. Monitors beeped. Time crawled.
Mid-afternoon, commotion erupted in the hallway. Raised voices. A nurse protesting.
"Sir, you shouldn't be walking yet—"
"I'm fine."
Piero appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on a nurse who looked ready to tackle him. His face was gray beneath the bruises, one eye still swollen shut, fresh stitches cutting across his cheekbone.
I stood. "Piero, you should be in bed."
"So should you." He shuffled to Cesare's bedside, each step clearly costing him. Stared down at his unconscious brother.
The nurse gave up, left us alone with a stern warning about fifteen minutes maximum.
Piero's hand shook as he touched Cesare's shoulder. "Idiot. Taking a bullet for me."
"He loves you," I said quietly. "You're his family."
"So are you." He looked at me through his good eye. "He told me. Before the rescue. In case... in case he didn't make it. He told me to protect you and the baby."
My breath caught. "He told you about the baby?"
"Needed me to know. Someone had to protect you both if he..." Piero trailed off. Couldn't finish the sentence.
"But he made it. You both did."
"Yeah. We're hard to kill, us Monti boys." He swayed slightly.
I caught his arm. "Okay, back to bed. Now."
"Bossy. I see why he married you."
Getting Piero back to his room took ten minutes and left both of us exhausted. He collapsed onto his bed with a groan, face going even grayer.
"Next time," I said, adjusting his blankets, "use a wheelchair."
"Next time, tell my brother not to take bullets."
"Deal."
His good eye focused on me. "You're scared."
Not a question. A statement.
"Terrified," I admitted. "What if he doesn't wake up? What if there's permanent damage or—"
"He'll wake up. And he'll be fine. Cesare's survived worse."
"Like what?"
"Like being shot three times during a territory war five years ago. Like a car bomb that killed our uncle but only gave him a concussion. Like..." Piero paused. "Like falling for someone he wasn't supposed to love."
Heat crept up my neck. "He hasn't—we haven't—"
"Please. I've known my brother thirty-two years. He looks at you like you're air and he's drowning."
Before I could respond, his nurse returned and ordered me out. I went, but Piero's words followed me down the hall.
That evening, Cesare's surgeon stopped by to check vitals. Dr. Reeves—late forties, efficient, kind in that clinical way doctors managed.
"He's healing well," she said, reviewing the monitors. "We'll start bringing him out of sedation tomorrow morning."
Relief flooded through me so fast I had to sit. "Thank God."
"However, I need to discuss something with you, Mrs. Monti."
The tone made my stomach drop. "What?"
Dr. Reeves pulled up a chair, sat. Professional but kind. "Your husband's injuries are serious. Fractured ribs, a punctured lung, significant trauma. He'll need months of recovery."
"I understand."
"I'm not sure you do. He can't work. Can't engage in stressful activities. No physical confrontations. His body needs to heal completely or there could be permanent damage."
I almost laughed. "Doctor, he runs a... business empire. Stress is unavoidable."
"Then he needs to delegate. Step back. Or risk his health long-term."
"I'll talk to him."
"Good. Because there's another concern." Dr. Reeves hesitated. "The nurses mentioned you've been sick. Multiple times. Are you alright?"
I froze. The pregnancy. No one could know yet. "Just stress. I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Because if you're pregnant, the stress you're under isn't good for—"
"I'm fine," I insisted. Too sharply. "Really. Just worried about my husband."
Dr. Reeves studied me but didn't push. "Alright. But take care of yourself too. He'll need you strong when he wakes up."
After she left, I sat in the quiet room and let my hand drift to my stomach. Five weeks. Barely anything. But already everything.
Past midnight. The hospital settled into that strange late-night hush where everything felt suspended.
I'd given up trying to sleep. Just sat beside Cesare, holding his hand, watching machines breathe for him.
"I'm scared," I whispered to his unconscious form. "Not of Viktor or the families or any of that. I'm scared of losing you. Of raising this baby alone. Of being in this world without you."
His monitors beeped steadily. No response. He couldn't hear me.
"I love you. I should have said it earlier. Should have said it a hundred times. But I was scared of that too. Scared of admitting how much you mean to me."
I rested my head on our joined hands. "So you have to wake up. You have to be okay. Because I need you. We need you."
Tears I'd been holding back for hours finally fell. I cried quietly, careful not to disturb the machines, letting out fear and exhaustion and love I'd kept locked inside.
Footsteps approached. I jerked up, wiping my eyes.
A nurse stood in the doorway, apologetic. "I'm sorry to disturb you. But there's someone here to see you. She says it's urgent."
"Who?"
"Your sister. Bianca Lombardo."
My entire body went rigid. Bianca. Here. Now.
She was supposed to be under guard at the penthouse. How did she get out? Did she escape? Was this another betrayal?
"She's with one of your security team," the nurse continued. "Said Mr. Monti—Piero—authorized her visit. Should I send her away?"
Piero authorized it. That meant this wasn't an escape—he'd deliberately sent her here.
"No." I stood, legs unsteady. "I'll see her. But not here. Not near Cesare."
I followed the nurse to a private waiting room down the hall. Giulio intercepted us outside Cesare's door.
"Mrs. Monti, I don't think—"
"It's fine, Giulio. Stay with Cesare. I can handle my sister."
"I'll be right outside this door."
"Thank you."
The waiting room was small, generic. Beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, magazines nobody read.
And there she was.
Bianca. My identical twin. Looking healthier than the last time I'd seen her a few days ago—her bruises had faded, stitches removed.
We stared at each other. Mirror images. Strangers.
"Hi," Bianca said. Voice small and uncertain.
I didn't respond. Just waited.
"I heard about the rescue. About Cesare getting shot. I wanted to... I needed to see you."
"Why?"
"Because you're my sister."
The statement was so absurd I almost laughed. "Your sister? The one you drugged and abandoned? That sister?"
Bianca flinched. "I know. I know what I did was—"
"Unforgivable?"
"I was going to say unforgivable, yes."
Silence. Heavy with six weeks of betrayal, anger, hurt.
"Why are you really here, Bianca?"
She sat, looking exhausted in a way that mirrored my own bone-deep weariness. "Because Piero told me what happened. How Cesare took a bullet for him. How you saved them both. And I realized... I realized I don't know who you are anymore."
"I'm the same person I've always been."
"No. You're not. The Paola I knew was quiet. Invisible. She taught art classes and went home alone. This Paola married a Don. Survived in his world. Helped rescue people from a mafia war."
Bianca looked up, and I saw genuine confusion in eyes, identical to mine. "Who are you now?"
I sat across from her, maintaining distance. "I'm someone who didn't have a choice. You gave me to Cesare like I was nothing. And I had to survive."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you? Because you had weeks to be sorry. weeks to come back. To explain. To fix this. Instead, you went to Viktor. Gave him information to destroy us."
"I was scared! After I ran, I had nowhere to go. Viktor found me, offered protection—"
"In exchange for betraying your family."
"You're not my family anymore," Bianca said bitterly. "You're a Monti now. You chose them over me."
"I didn't choose anything! You forced me into that church! You stole my life!"
The words echoed in the small room. Too loud. Too raw.
I stood. "I can't do this. Not now. Cesare is fighting for his life upstairs and I'm six weeks pregnant and I don't have the energy to—"
I stopped. Realized what I'd just said.
Bianca's eyes went wide. "You're pregnant?"
Fuck.
"You can't tell anyone," I said immediately. "No one knows except Cesare and Piero and—"
"I won't tell anyone," Bianca said quietly. "I promise."
I wanted to trust her. My heart ached with how badly I wanted that, but I just couldn’t. "Your promises mean nothing to me."
The words landed like a slap. Bianca looked away.