19. Cat
— ? —
Cat
The door at the end of the hallway has been bothering me all week.
Nico called before breakfast with good news for once.
I was right about the men Sergio was hiring.
The old army friend led them to the lodge, and Enzo reached the men there before Sergio could bring them into the city.
With their payment frozen and both families watching, they took their bags and left.
The three missing captains weren’t allowed to leave with them.
“You just took a lot of guns out of my father’s hands,” Nico told me. I’ve been trying not to smile at that ever since.
“What’s behind the white door?” I ask at breakfast, pointing with my toast. “The one between the guest room and the linen closet.”
Max looks up from his coffee. “Medical suite.”
“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to say that again, because I could have sworn you just said medical suite.”
“I did say medical suite. Exam table and basic equipment from the renovation. The ultrasound machine arrived this week.”
“You installed a medical suite in my grandmother’s farmhouse. Just casually. Like adding a mudroom or a pantry.”
“It seemed practical at the time,” he says, deadpan.
“Practical for what, exactly? Were you planning to perform surgery between feeding the goats and arguing with Cannoli?”
“I was planning for contingencies. Emergencies. Situations where getting to a regular hospital would be complicated or take too long.” He sets down his coffee cup. “This life comes with risks, Cat. I wanted to be prepared for them.”
“This life,” I repeat. “You mean our life. The mafia life.”
“Yes.”
“So you built a bunker and added a hospital wing.”
“It’s not a hospital wing. It’s one room with some equipment. And yes, that’s exactly what I did.” He meets my eyes without flinching. “Do you want to see it?”
I do want to see it. I’ve been avoiding doctors for months, too scared to walk into a clinic, too paranoid about leaving a paper trail.
The baby has been moving and kicking and generally making its presence known, but I have no idea if everything is actually okay.
I’ve been operating on hope and WebMD searches, and that’s not a sustainable medical plan.
“Show me,” I say.
The room is smaller than I expected.
Clean and efficient, with an exam table, rolling cabinets, monitors, and in the corner, an ultrasound machine that looks brand new.
“When did you add the ultrasound?” I ask.
“After I found out about the baby. I called David, he’s a tech I’ve worked with before, and asked him what equipment we’d need for prenatal care. He sent me a list, and I ordered everything on it.”
“You just ordered a bunch of medical equipment like you were shopping for groceries.”
“I ordered a bunch of medical equipment like I was trying to take care of my pregnant wife who couldn’t see a regular doctor without risking her safety.
” He opens one of the cabinets, showing me neatly organized supplies.
“This isn’t paranoia, Cat. This is something I can do now that I know what you need. ”
“You built the room before you knew about the baby.”
“The room, yes. The ultrasound equipment I ordered after I saw you in the church.” He closes the cabinet. “I built it for emergencies. The prenatal equipment came after you told me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. The room suddenly feels very small, very full of implications I’m not ready to examine.
“Can David come here?” I ask. “To do an actual scan?”
“He can come today if you want. I just have to make a call.”
“How does that work? Doesn’t he need to know where he’s going?”
“He knows where he’s going. He just won’t see how he gets there.” Max pulls out his phone. “I’ll explain when he arrives. It’s going to look strange, but I promise it’s completely consensual on his part.”
“That’s a concerning sentence without context.”
“Most of my sentences are. Give me ten minutes.”
David arrives two hours later, wearing a blindfold.
He’s guided up the porch steps by two of Max’s men, one on each arm, moving carefully and chatting about the weather like this is the most normal thing in the world. I watch from the window, convinced I’m hallucinating.
“Okay, I need you to explain this immediately,” I say when Max comes back inside.
“David has worked with the family for over a decade. He handles medical situations that require discretion, injuries that can’t go through official channels, procedures that need to stay private. He’s trustworthy, but the location of this farm is sensitive information.”
“So you blindfold him?”
“I asked if he’d be willing to travel without seeing the route. He agreed. The compensation is generous, and he understands why the precaution is necessary.” Max removes the blindfold from David’s face. “David, this is my wife, Cat. Cat, this is David.”
David blinks a few times, adjusts to the light, and then extends his hand with a warm smile. “Mrs. Moretti, it’s a pleasure. Your husband has been talking about you for months. I feel like I already know you.”
“Has he?” I shake his hand, glancing at Max, who has become very interested in the ceiling. “What exactly has he been saying?”
“That you’re brilliant, stubborn, and the best thing that ever happened to him. Also that you have very specific opinions about chess strategy and that he’s never beaten you at a single game.”
“That’s all accurate.”
“I figured it would be. The blindfold thing bothers some people, but honestly, the drive is pleasant and Bruno has excellent taste in podcasts. I’ve caught up on three seasons of a true crime show I never had time for.”
“This is the strangest medical appointment I’ve ever had.”
“Wait until you see my bedside manner. It’s exceptional.” David picks up his equipment bag. “Shall we take a look at this baby?”
The gel is cold against my skin, and I flinch.
“Sorry about that,” David says, adjusting the wand. “I should have warmed the bottle a little longer. Try to relax your stomach muscles if you can. It makes the image clearer.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being used as a screen.”
“Fair point. I’ll try to be quick with the cold part.”
Max is standing near my head, close but not touching, giving me space to decide what I want. He’s been doing that all week, staying present without crowding, making his availability known without demanding I take advantage of it.
“There we go,” David says, and the screen flickers to life. “Okay, give me a second to find the good angles… there. See that? That’s the head.”
I don’t see it at first. Just gray shapes, shadows moving against shadows. Then something shifts, and suddenly…
“Oh my God.”
“And that curved line is the spine. Beautiful positioning, by the way; the baby is cooperating perfectly. Some of them turn away from the wand like they’re camera-shy, but this one is showing off.”
“That’s definitely Cat’s child,” Max says quietly. “Already knows how to command a room.”
“Shh. I’m looking at the head.”
“You can look at the head and also appreciate my observation about hereditary showmanship.”
“I’m choosing to focus on the medical miracle happening on this screen, if that’s alright with you.”
David laughs. “You two are going to be entertaining parents. Okay, here are the arms, both of them, ten fingers total. The legs are tucked up here, but I can see ten toes as well. Everything’s measuring exactly where it should be.”
“Everything?” Max’s voice is rougher now. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. This scan looks textbook-healthy. Growth is on track, amniotic fluid looks good, placenta is positioned well. Now, do you want to hear the heartbeat?”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
David presses a button, and the room fills with sound.
It’s fast, much faster than I expected. A rhythmic whooshing that sounds like a tiny drum or a train or something between the two. Alive. Undeniably, overwhelmingly alive.
“Is that normal?” Max asks. “That it’s so fast?”
“Completely normal. Fetal heart rates are typically between 120 and 160 beats per minute. This one’s sitting right at 145, which is perfect.”
“Can you play it again?”
David plays it again. And again, when Max asks a third time, his voice cracking on the request.
“Can I record it?” Max asks. “On my phone?”
“Of course. Hold it near the speaker.”
Max fumbles with his phone, hands trembling visibly as he positions it. David plays the heartbeat a fourth time, and Max records every second, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “She’s perfect.”
“She?” I look at him.
“Or he. I don’t care. Whatever they are. They’re perfect.”
David glances between us. “Would you like to know? I have a clear view.”
I look at Max, then nod. “Yes.”
David smiles. “A girl.” Max exhales hard.
He reaches for my hand. I look at his fingers, hovering in the air near mine, and I think about all the reasons I should pull away. All the times I’ve reached for him and been hurt. All the trust that was broken between us.
I let him take my hand anyway.
His fingers close around mine, warm and careful, and we watch our baby move on the screen, me on the exam table and him beside it.
For one minute, maybe two, we’re not the don and the donna, the estranged spouses, the people with months of hurt between them.
We’re just two people looking at something they made together.
I want this. I want it so badly that the wanting feels like a physical ache in my chest. This partnership. This life. This version of us.
I’m terrified to trust it.
“You okay?” Max asks softly.
“Yeah.” I squeeze his hand once, then let go. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
David leaves the same way he came, blindfolded, chatting about podcasts, apparently unbothered by any of it. I stay in the medical suite, holding the ultrasound printout, staring at the grainy image of my baby’s profile.
“He said everything looks perfect,” Max says from the doorway. “The baby, your health, all of it. He gave me a list of vitamins you should be taking and warning signs to watch for, but he said he’s not worried.”