Chapter 16
Mina
Cristiano is looking at Leon like he’s never seen him before. He’s rooted to the spot, staring into my son’s amber eyes like he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing.
I can’t breathe.
This is the moment I’ve been dreading since I first saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. The moment I’ve lied and schemed and run from for half a decade.
I’ve imagined it in my nightmares a thousand times.
Cristiano finding out. Cristiano’s face when he realizes what I’ve done. Cristiano’s anger.
But nothing prepared me for the reality of it.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. Someone has pressed a call button, and it’s beeping and beeping. The toddler in the corner wails. A nurse’s shoes squeak past on the linoleum outside.
Cristiano still hasn’t moved, and he’s staring at Leon with an expression I can’t read. Not knowing what he’s thinking is worse than anything.
Say something, I want to scream. Yell at me. Storm out. Do something.
But he just stands there, frozen, while I fall apart.
The doctor clears her throat. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she says quietly, and slips away.
I should say something. Explain. Apologize. But my mouth won’t form words. I’m so tired I can barely stay upright, and my mind keeps circling the same terrible thoughts over and over again:
He knows.
He hates me.
He’s never going to help Leon.
Four years of secrets and flinching every time someone commented on how handsome Leon is, terrified they’d see the Montoni in his face. It’s over now. The truth is out, and I have no idea what comes next.
The ward carries on around us, oblivious to my world ending. The toddler in the corner is still screaming, a thin, relentless wail that drills into my skull. The call button is still being ignored.
Leon’s eyes have already drifted closed again, but Cristiano is still staring at him. I can see his mind working. Putting together the pieces. Realizing just how thoroughly I’ve deceived him.
He’s going to leave.
The thought crystallizes in my exhausted brain with terrible clarity.
He’s going to walk out of this hospital and leave us here.
Why wouldn’t he? I hid his son from him.
I let him believe Leon belonged to another man, let him torture himself with jealousy over a rival who never existed.
No man can forgive that kind of betrayal.
Or worse, he’ll stay, and he’ll take Leon from me. He has the money. The lawyers. The power. He could have me declared an unfit mother by the end of the week. He could make sure I never see my son again.
I watch him standing there in his expensive suit, so out of place in this grimy, overcrowded ward, and I think about his father. Don Agnello Montoni, who beat his son until Cristiano learned to hide his pain, and who ruled his family through fear and violence and calculated cruelty.
This is the moment, I think. This is the moment he becomes his father. I’ve pushed him to the edge.
“Cristiano,” I say, forcing the anguished words out. “Leon doesn’t have much time. A nurse will take your blood. Will you please be tested to see if you’re a donor match?”
Cristiano finally moves. He shakes his head slowly, and when he speaks, his voice is flat. Empty.
“No.”
I grab the plastic chair to keep from falling, but my hands are shaking too badly to grip anything. The room is spinning. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
No.
He’s going to let Leon die rather than help the woman who betrayed him. That “no” sounds like the end of everything.
“Cristiano.” His name comes out broken, barely a whisper. “Please.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look at me. He’s staring around the ward now, taking in the chaos and the screaming baby and the flickering lights. His jaw is tight. His eyes are hard.
I stumble toward him, my legs barely holding me up. I grab his arm, his jacket, whatever I can reach. I have no pride left. I am a mother whose child is dying, and I will do anything, anything.
“Please.” I’m crying now, tears streaming down my face, and I can’t stop them. “I’ll do anything you want. I’ll live with you. I’ll marry you.”
The terror of losing Leon is making me swear things that I never thought would pass my lips.
“Just please, please—”
I don’t even know what I’m begging for. For him to save Leon. For him not to take my son away. The words tumble out in a desperate flood, and I’m gripping his jacket so hard my knuckles ache.
“Please don’t punish him for what I did. He’s innocent. He’s just a little boy. He doesn’t know anything about any of this. If you want to hurt someone, hurt me. Do whatever you like to me. I deserve it. But not him. Not Leon. Please, Cristiano, I’m begging you.”
He’s staring down at me, utterly still.
His face is unreadable. I can’t tell if it’s rage or disgust or something else entirely. His stillness terrifies me more than anger would. Agnello Montoni used to go quiet like this right before he exploded.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. My hands are fisted in his jacket, and as I’m looking up at him, I realize I’m waiting for him to hit me. To shove me away. To do something violent and cruel, the way his father would have.
Instead, he seizes my arms.
I flinch, bracing for pain.
“Mina.” His voice is sharp. “No. Stop.”
I can’t stop. The words keep spilling out, a desperate flood of apologies and pleas and promises I’ll never be able to keep.
“Please help Leon, please don’t walk out and—”
“Mina.” His grip tightens on my arms, forcing me to look at him. “That’s not what I meant.”
I blink up at him, uncomprehending. My brain is moving too slowly. I haven’t slept in days. I don’t understand what’s happening.
“I meant we are not doing this here.” His voice is low and fierce. “Not in this place.”
He looks around the ward again, and this time I see the expression on his face clearly. It’s not rage.
It’s disgust.
“This hospital is a disgrace,” he says. “The conditions are unacceptable. The staff are overwhelmed or downright rude. Your son—” He stops.
Swallows. “Our son is lying in a room with screaming children and old equipment, and that call button hasn’t been answered since I came in here.
And you.” His jaw flexes. “Look at what this place has done to you.”
I stare at him, still not understanding.
“Leon deserves better than this, and so do you.” His amber eyes meet mine, blazing with something I can’t name.
“Let me make some calls. I can have him transferred to a private hospital within the hour. The best pediatric specialists in the country. A private room. Around-the-clock care. And I’ll get tested.
I’ll have the blood test as soon as you and Leon are safe. ”
The words wash over me, but they don’t make sense. He’s not leaving. He’s not taking Leon away from me.
“You’re going to help him?” My voice comes out small and broken.
Something flickers across Cristiano’s face. For a moment, he looks almost hurt.
“He’s my son, Mina.” His voice is rough. “Did you really think I would let him die?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
Did you really think I was that much of a monster?
Yes, I did think that. That’s why I hid Leon for four years. That’s why I ran. That’s why I’ve been lying every single day since the moment I found out I was pregnant.
Because I look at Cristiano Montoni and see violence and obsession and cold, calculating cruelty. A man who would cage me and control me and raise our son to be just like him.
I had to protect Leon.
Cristiano’s hands are still gripping my arms, holding me upright. I don’t know when I started leaning into him, but I’m too tired to pull away.
“I’m going to make some calls,” he says quietly. “I need you to sit down before you collapse. Can you do that for me?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I can do anything.
He guides me to the plastic chair, easing me down like I’m made of glass. Then he pulls out his phone and steps away into the hall, already tapping the screen.
I sit there, shaking, and I watch him through the open door. His voice is low and clipped, full of quiet authority. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can feel the effect it must be having. Whoever’s on the other end of that call will be jumping to obey Don Cristiano Montoni.
I turn to Leon and stroke his hair, taking in his yellow skin, his shallow breath, his small body fighting a battle it might not win.
For the first time in five years, I’m not alone. I don’t know how to process that.
Things move quickly after that. Cristiano makes call after call, his voice low and commanding, and I catch fragments.
Pediatric surgeon, private room, the best hepatologist in the state, money is not an object.
Most of it washes over me. I’m focused on Leon, on the shallow rise and fall of his chest, on keeping my hand wrapped around his small fingers.
Within thirty minutes, Dr. Raynor returns with paperwork.
Her eyebrows rise slightly when she sees Cristiano, and when she hears the name of the hospital Leon is being transferred to, I know she must be wondering how I can suddenly afford this kind of care.
She just signs the forms and hands over copies of Leon’s medical records.
“St. Vincent’s is an excellent facility,” she tells me. “He’ll be in good hands.”
Cristiano’s eyes don’t leave Leon. “He’ll be in the best hands. I’ll make sure of it.”
The private medical transport arrives thirty minutes later. Not a regular ambulance, but something sleeker, cleaner, with equipment that’s shining and new. Two paramedics in crisp uniforms assess Leon with calm efficiency, their movements careful and precise.
I watch everything. Every wire they disconnect, every monitor they attach to the portable unit, every adjustment they make to his IV. My exhausted brain catalogs each detail, searching for any sign that they might hurt my son.
They’re gentle with him. Professional. One of them even calls him buddy as they lift him onto the transport stretcher.