Chapter Forty-Three Ella
Chapter Forty-Three
Ella
By the time we pull up outside the hospital, there are already people waiting.
A few staff members hurry out as if they’ve been expecting us, coats pulled tight against the cold, their expressions alert and professional. It makes my stomach twist. I feel like some sort of celebrity, and I don’t like it.
Tiero’s other SUV is parked near the entrance. They must have driven ahead. It would explain this commotion.
As the car comes to a stop, a nurse pushes a wheelchair forward. Tiero gets out immediately, speaking in low, clipped tones to a man waiting for him by the curb.
I recognize him from Sicily, though I can’t remember his name. He’s Mariella’s father, and my dislike for him resurfaces instantly, remembering the way he spoke to her.
Beside me, Rhia shifts and takes my hand to get my attention.
“I’m so sorry, El,” she says, her voice thick with guilt. “It’s my fault you’re hurt. And I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to Peanut because of me.”
“It wasn’t you,” I say quickly.
“Yes, it was.” Her eyes shine with tears. “I upset you and then you slipped and…”
She can’t finish the sentence. I squeeze her hand, unable to speak because I’m crying again too.
Tiero is suddenly back, leaning into the car. His jaw is tight, his teeth grinding together.
Crap. He must have heard us.
He reaches in and lifts me up without hesitation, cradling me against his chest. I’ll need to talk to him about this. Knowing him, he’s probably blaming Rhia for what happened.
“I can walk,” I protest. “My legs are fine.”
“Don’t care,” he says, tension rolling off him.
He walks straight past the wheelchair and carries me inside. I try not to wince as pain flares through my arm with every step he takes, but the movement makes it impossible to hide completely.
Inside, we’re ushered into an examination room. The sterile scent of antiseptic hits me immediately. A doctor enters right behind us, professional smile in place, and gestures toward the bed.
Tiero lowers me onto it carefully and immediately takes my right hand in his. His grip is firm and grounding. For his peace of mind, he needs the contact. I need it, too.
Dr. Agosti joins us, speaking calmly as he outlines his initial assessment of my arm, my back, and the pregnancy.
As he talks, my thoughts keep racing ahead, searching for something he hasn’t said yet. After all, he insisted on a more thorough check even before my fall.
Dr. Smith, the local doctor, examines my arm, prodding and rotating gently, and pain shoots through me. I cry out before I can stop myself.
Tiero’s free hand curls into a fist. I force my expression to smooth and grit my teeth, not wanting to give him an excuse to go off at the doctor.
The tension in the room spikes. The doctor flicks a cautious glance at Tiero before saying an X-ray is necessary.
“Is that safe?” Tiero asks instantly. “For her and the baby.”
“Yes,” Dr. Smith replies without hesitation. “Since the injury is limited to the arm, the risk is negligible. We will take all necessary precautions.”
As the doctor leaves to make arrangements, Tiero motions for Dr. Agosti to follow him.
“Make sure everything is in order.”
When the door closes, Tiero pulls me gently against his chest and exhales. I do the same. For once, I am grateful for his overprotectiveness.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, shifting my arm when the dull throb spikes again.
“For what?” he asks, his voice steady. “Slipping on an icy step wasn’t your fault.”
It was. I should have paid more attention instead of letting fear swallow my thoughts. But I’m not ready for that conversation, so I settle for, “I should have been more careful.”
My fingers trace aimless patterns on the paper sheet beneath me as I avoid his gaze.
“Angel,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly I do.
“Dr. Agosti is confident the fall didn’t harm our baby. The obstetrician will confirm it. That’s what matters right now.”
He kisses me then.
It’s not passionate and consuming like the kisses we shared last night, but a reassurance that we’re in this together. We’re interrupted when the doctors return.
“The orthopedic team is ready for the X-ray,” Dr. Smith says. “After that, we’ll do an ultrasound to assess the baby’s development.”
“And her hands?” Tiero asks. “They’ve been freezing.”
The doctor checks them, scribbling notes. “It could be related to circulation, iron levels, or thyroid function. We’ll run blood tests to be sure.”
“And if something’s wrong?” I ask, worrying my lower lip.
“We’ll address it,” he assures me. “We’ll start with bloodwork.”
Once again, he leaves.
Tiero squeezes my shoulders, then turns to Dr. Agosti, who’s still in the room.
“Are they covering everything?”
“They are,” he replies. “Santino’s donation ensured priority care. Results will take a few hours. There may be treatment afterward. You should expect to stay overnight.”
Tiero nods once. “Arrange a suitable room.”
“Of course.”
When we’re alone again, I glance at him. “How big was the donation?”
“No idea,” he says. “Santino handled it. But you’re worth every cent.”
He kisses me again just as a nurse enters with a cart to draw my blood. She blushes when she sees how close we are and keeps her eyes firmly on the trolley.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the quiet efficiency around me as she fills a few vials with my blood.
This place feels less like a hospital and more like a train station.
VIP treatment, it seems, comes with a lot of interruptions.
After the X-rays, a nurse gives me something for the pain, safe for pregnancy. It dulls the sharpest edge without making me feel disconnected.
On the way back from orthopedics, I stop briefly in the waiting area to check on Rhia, Claudette, and Lex and update them on what is happening. They are not alone. A few of Tiero’s men are stationed nearby, watchful but unobtrusive.
It quickly becomes obvious that the waiting area has been cleared just for us. This is a small hospital, yet a buffet table with finger foods and drinks sits neatly arranged in one corner.
No doubt the result of Tiero’s generosity.
We are moved into a private room soon after. It has been upgraded in ways that seem almost surreal for where we are. Fresh linens. Softer lighting. Vases of my favorite flowers placed on every available surface, brightening the sterile space with warmth and color.
“You remembered I love lilies,” I say, staring at the bouquet beside the bed.
“Of course,” Tiero replies, kissing the top of my head. “I remember everything about you.”
We lie together on the narrow hospital bed, my head tucked against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around me.
From the elbow down, my left arm is encased in a sturdy cast. The X-rays showed a fracture, and six weeks in plaster was the verdict. It already feels like forever, even if it is my non-dominant arm.
For now, it rests across his abdomen while we’re waiting for the obstetrician. She’s delivering a baby in another wing and will come once she’s free.
I smile softly, absorbing the quiet certainty in his words. I haven’t forgotten anything he’s ever told me either.
“What is your mother’s name?” I ask after a moment, realizing how little I truly know about his family.
“Adelina,” he says. His voice softens instantly. “It means noble and kind.”
“That’s beautiful,” I breathe. The name settles easily in my chest.
“And you remembered I always want to know the meaning of names,” I tease, nudging him gently.
He kisses my forehead. “Told you. I remember everything.”
I let the name roll through my thoughts. Adelina.
“How would you feel about naming our baby Adelina, if we have a girl?” I ask, peeking up at him. “In honor of your mother.”
His smile grows slowly, unmistakably sincere. “I would love that.”
He pauses, then adds, “And your mother’s name as her middle name. She deserves to be remembered too.”
Emotion tightens my throat. “She does.”
“Adelina Ingrid De Marco,” he says softly.
The name resonates deep inside me.
“I love it,” I say after a moment. “It sounds elegant. And powerful.”
He lifts my chin and kisses me tenderly.
“I love it too,” he murmurs. “It’s settled then. Though you realize we’re having a boy first. It’s a De Marcos tradition.”
I roll my eyes and giggle.
Ignoring his last comment, I ask, “How do you know my mom’s name? I’ve never told you.” I prop myself up on my good arm to look at him.
“Remember? I’ve done my homework on you.”
Huffing softly, I settle back against him, snuggling deeper into his embrace.
“Creep,” I tease, still riding the quiet excitement of having a name for our daughter.
“We need a boy’s name too,” he says, suddenly serious.
“Yeah,” I reply with a small smile. “We should probably cover all bases.”
He tickles my side at my tone, and I lift my casted arm and let it drop playfully onto his stomach, making him groan.
“Every first-born son has always had Leandro as a middle name,” he muses.
“In honor of your great-great-grandfather,” I say. “I remember you telling me about it.”
“He started la famiglia,” Tiero continues. “But I want a different path for us.”
He strokes my back absentmindedly, pulling me closer against him.
“What I’m proposing will make my ancestors roll in their graves, but I want to name our firstborn son after our fathers.”
My heart skips a beat. He really is serious about this.
“I like the sound of Ciarán Stefano De Marco,” he says, smiling.
My chest tightens with emotion. “My father’s name first?”
Tiero nods.
Da meant the world to me. For my son to carry his name and let his memory live on brings back the tears I’ve been holding at bay.
“I love it,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
We kiss again, because really, is there any better way to celebrate?
For the first time since the fall, I let myself believe everything might really be okay.