4. Mel
— ? —
Mel
Present Day
Nausea is impossible to hide, and I’ve run out of ways to try.
Three days. That’s how long I’ve been living on crackers and ginger ale, telling myself it’s stress, telling myself it’s the hospital food I choked down during Santino’s recovery, telling myself it’s anything except what some increasingly loud part of my brain suspects it actually is.
The pregnancy test sits in my nightstand drawer, still in its box, untouched.
I can’t take it. If I take it and it’s negative, then I have to accept that my body is just falling apart from the strain of my failing marriage. And if I take it and it’s positive -
I can’t think about that. Not yet.
“Melanie.”
I look up from the bathroom mirror where I’ve been splashing water on my face for the fifth time this morning.
Vittoria is standing in the doorway of my bedroom, my bedroom now, the one Santino and I used to share before he moved down the hall, her face arranged into an expression I’ve never seen her wear before.
Concern.
“You look terrible,” she says, but the words come out almost soft. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I’m fine.” I reach for a towel, pat my face dry. “Just tired.”
“Cara.” The endearment lands wrong in her mouth, too sweet, too careful. “You’ve been ill for days. We’re worried about you.”
We. As if the Bianchi family has ever worried about me a day in their collective lives.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Really. I probably just caught a bug at the hospital.”
Vittoria steps into the bathroom, into my space, and I have to fight the urge to back away. “Massimo and I have been talking. We think you should see a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“You’re part of this family.” Her hand lands on my arm, light and alien. “We take care of our own.”
Cold slithers down my spine. Three years of marriage, and Vittoria has never once touched me with anything approaching gentleness.
She’s insulted my clothes, criticized my cooking, told her husband in Italian that I was a gold-digging whore with no breeding, but she’s never, ever pretended to care about my well-being.
“What’s going on?” I ask, because I’ve learned that direct questions make liars uncomfortable.
“Nothing is going on. We’re simply concerned.” She smiles, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you an appointment at a clinic I trust. Dr. Ferrara is wonderful - very discreet, very thorough. A car will pick you up at two.”
“A car.”
“Massimo insisted. He doesn’t want you driving when you’re feeling unwell.”
I search her face for the trap. There’s always a trap with Vittoria.
“That’s very generous,” I say slowly. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine in a day or two. There’s no need to-”
“I insist.” Her grip on my arm tightens, just slightly. “Please, Melanie. Let us help you.”
The please lands wrong, sits in the air between us like a trap with the jaws still open. Vittoria Bianchi doesn’t say please to the likes of me.
“Fine.” The word comes out flat, suspicious, but I’m too tired to keep fighting. “Two o’clock.”
“Wonderful.” She releases my arm, steps back into the doorway. “Rest until then, cara. You’ll feel better soon.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I stand there in my bathroom wondering what the hell just happened.
***
The clinic is private. Of course it is.
Marble floors, fresh flowers on every surface, staff who speak in hushed tones like we’re in a library instead of a medical facility. The waiting room has exactly zero other patients, and I’m ushered into an examination room within minutes of arriving.
“Mrs. Bianchi.” The doctor, Dr. Ferrara, I assume, is a slim woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and an impeccable white coat. “I understand you’ve been experiencing some symptoms?”
“Nausea,” I say, settling onto the examination table. “Fatigue. Nothing serious.”
“When did the symptoms begin?”
“A few days ago. Maybe a week.”
“And your last menstrual cycle?”
The question catches me off-guard. “I - I’m not sure exactly. Things have been stressful. My husband was in the hospital.”
“I see.” She makes a note on her clipboard. “We’ll run some blood tests, just to rule out anything concerning. Is that all right?”
It’s not really a question. I’m in Vittoria’s clinic, surrounded by Vittoria’s people, and I have the sudden, paranoid feeling that refusing would cause more problems than agreeing.
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever you think is best.”
The blood draw is quick and painless. So is the rest of the exam, vitals, weight, the usual. Dr. Ferrara asks questions about my diet, my sleep habits, my stress levels, and I answer on autopilot, watching her face for any sign of what she’s really looking for.
“We should have the results within the hour,” she says when it’s over. “Please, feel free to wait in our lounge. There’s tea, coffee, anything you need.”
“Thank you.”
I wait in the lounge, which is more like a five-star hotel lobby than a medical waiting room.
The tea is excellent. The magazines are all in Italian.
And through the window I can see the main entrance, where Vittoria’s driver is standing next to the car, ready to take me wherever she’s decided I should go next.
The hour passes like molasses.
When Dr. Ferrara finally reappears, her expression is professionally neutral in a way that tells me nothing.
“All finished,” she says. “The car can take you home now.”
“And the results?”
“Will be sent to your mother-in-law, as she requested.” A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. “Standard family communication protocol.”
I stare at her. “The results of my medical tests are being sent to my mother-in-law?”
“It’s family policy.” She smiles, tight and formal. “You understand.”
I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all. But there’s nothing I can do about it here, in this clinic owned by people who hate me, surrounded by staff who answer to Vittoria before they’ll ever answer to me.
“Of course,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
The drive home feels endless.
***
The niceness continues.
That’s the part that scares me most. Not the clinic visit, not the mysterious tests, not even the fact that my medical results are apparently Bianchi family property now. It’s the niceness.
Vittoria asks me how I’m feeling at dinner. Massimo inquires about my comfort. Even Allegra, fucking Allegra, brings me a cup of herbal tea and tells me to rest, her voice dripping with a sweetness that makes my skin crawl.
Santino, of course, notices nothing. He’s back at work despite doctor’s orders, spending eighteen-hour days at the office with Allegra by his side, and when he does come home he collapses into the guest room bed he’s been sleeping in for months.
The surgery just handed him a cleaner excuse for it - just until I’m healed, he said. I don’t want to disturb you.
It’s been three weeks. His incision has healed.
He hasn’t moved back.
By the time night falls, I’m so on edge I can barely breathe. I pace my room, checking my phone obsessively, waiting for some kind of notification that the other shoe is about to drop.
The knock, when it comes, makes me jump.
“It’s me,” Chiara’s voice calls through the door. “Can I come in?”
I practically drag her inside, shutting the door behind her with more force than necessary. “What the hell is going on?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” She looks around the room like she’s checking for hidden cameras, then drops onto my bed with a sigh. “My mother has been acting weird all day. Nice weird. It’s terrifying.”
“Tell me about it.” I sit down next to her. “She took me to her clinic today. Made me get tests done.”
Chiara’s face sharpens. “What kind of tests?”
“Blood work. The usual exam stuff.” I drag my hands through my hair. “She said the results would be sent to her. Is that normal? Is that some kind of Italian medical thing I don’t know about?”
“No.” Chiara’s voice has gone flat. “That’s not normal.”
“Then why-”
“Be careful, Mel.” She grabs my hand, squeezes hard. “My mother is never kind by accident. If she’s being nice to you, it’s because she wants a thing from you. Or because she already has it.”
“Has what? I don’t have anything she could possibly want.”
Chiara just looks at me, and her expression makes my stomach drop.
“What?” I demand. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I don’t know anything for sure.” She stands, moves toward the door. “But I know my mother. And I know that when she starts treating someone like family, it usually means she’s already figured out how to use them.”
“Chiara-”
“Be careful,” she says again, and then she’s gone.
I sit there in the silence, my hand on my stomach where a life might or might not be growing, and I try to imagine what Vittoria could possibly be planning.
The knock comes ten minutes later.
I expect Chiara again. Maybe coming back to tell me more, to explain the fear I saw in her eyes.
I open the door and the bottom drops out of my stomach.
Vittoria and Allegra stand shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, perfectly coiffed, perfectly poised, wearing matching smiles that don’t reach their eyes.
“Melanie,” Vittoria says. “We need to talk.”