Chapter 17
Cristiano
I’m a match.
The words echo in my head as I walk back through the pristine corridors of St. Vincent’s, past the soft beep of monitors within private rooms, the hushed conversations of medical staff, and waiting rooms where families sit in anxious clusters.
I’m a match. I can save him.
My son.
It still doesn’t feel real. I’ve had a son for four years, and I didn’t know. He’s been growing up in a tiny apartment in North Malus, playing with dinosaurs, learning to talk, taking his first steps. I wasn’t there for any of it.
Because Mina didn’t want me there.
She was right to hide him from you, my father’s voice sneers. It’s the only decent thing that girl has done. The boy is not the Montoni don’s concern. Give her money if you have to, and never think about either of them again.
Memories of my father rear up in tense moments, but with effort, I push the voice away.
The door to Leon’s room is slightly ajar, and I ease it open. Mrs. Santoro is sitting in the chair beside Leon’s bed, a picture book open in her lap. She looks up when I enter, her eyes red-rimmed but calmer than this morning.
“Mr. Montoni. Is there news?”
I hesitate. I want Mina to be the first one to know. “I’m waiting to hear back about the results.”
I look past her to the armchair by the window. Mina is curled up in it, her legs tucked beneath her, her head on the cushioned armrest. She’s wearing fresh clothes. Soft leggings and a faded T-shirt. Her damp hair is spread across the fabric. She looks younger like this, and so vulnerable.
“How long has she been out?” I ask quietly.
“An hour.” Mrs. Santoro follows my gaze, her expression softening. “She fought it as long as she could. But her body just gave in.”
I nod. “You should go home. Get some rest yourself. I’ll watch Leon while Mina is asleep.”
She hesitates, looking between me and her sleeping daughter. I can see the conflict on her face. She doesn’t fully trust me. How could she, after everything?
“You’ll watch over them?” she asks. “Both of them?”
“Yes.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she nods slowly, gathering her things.
“The surgery,” she says quietly, pausing at the door. “If you’re a match, it’s dangerous, isn’t it? For you?”
I meet her eyes. This woman who bandaged my scrapes and snuck me cookies and looked at me with fear and suspicion ever since I tied her daughter up with a belt.
“I’ve survived worse.”
She nods, seeming conflicted.
“Take care of them,” she says. “Take care of yourself too. I’ll be back in the morning for whatever you and Mina need.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m alone with Mina and Leon.
I should wake her. She needs to know the results and that her son—our son—has a chance now. She’s been carrying this terror alone for days, and I have the power to ease it.
But she looks so peaceful.
The dark circles under her eyes are still there, purple against her pale skin. Her hands are curled loosely in her lap, no longer trembling. Her breath comes slow and even, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.
I sink into the chair Mrs. Santoro vacated and watch her sleep.
Pathetic, my father’s voice hisses. She lied to you for years. She kept your son from you. She needs to be punished, not rewarded.
I try to ignore him, but my heart has been racing ever since Leon opened his eyes to reveal the Montoni amber, and I’m having trouble blocking him out.
The housekeeper’s daughter. You could have had anyone. Ariana Barone would have given you legitimate heirs, a strategic alliance, a wife who knew her place. Instead, you’re cutting out your organs for an ungrateful, deceitful woman.
Mina’s still mine. She’s always been mine, and now I have proof. A son with my eyes, sleeping beside me.
I look at Leon, a small body in the big bed, surrounded by stuffed animals my men brought. The T-rex is tucked against his side, one of his small hands clutching its tail even in sleep.
He looks like me.
I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. The shape of his face, his nose, the way his dark curls fall across his forehead. I was so focused on his mother that I missed every telltale sign.
She must have put contacts on his eyes. Colored contacts, to hide the amber. The thought should make me angry, but mostly I just feel…sad.
Mina built an entire life around the lie that Leon’s father was someone else, anyone else, as long as it wasn’t me.
Please don’t punish Leon because of me.
She begged me not to punish her child. My own child. Is that who she thinks I am?
That’s who I raised you to be. My father’s voice rattles in my head, demanding to be listened to.
That’s exactly who you should be. A real man would have walked away without a second glance, or taken the boy from his scheming, lying mother and raised him properly.
Punished her. Crushed her for what she dared to do to Don Cristiano Montoni.
I close my eyes. Both my hands are curled into fists.
A Montoni don doesn’t weaken himself, my father sneers. Your enemies will see this as an opportunity. They’ll come for you while you’re recovering, while you’re vulnerable, while you’re too weak to fight back.
Soon I’ll be unconscious on an operating table while surgeons cut into me and remove part of my liver. I’ll be recovering for weeks. Vulnerable in ways I haven’t been since I was a boy cowering under my father’s fists.
And Silas Cross is expecting my help. We have a tentative alliance built on my promise to help them hold the line.
When I don’t show up, Silas will think I betrayed them. The consequences are going to be dire, for them and for me.
I should care about my reputation, my alliances, the careful balance of power in Malus that keeps my enemies at bay.
I choose this. I choose my son’s life.
And Mina.
Always Mina.
Silas Cross and the Lucanias will have to be strong enough on their own. A petty part of me reasons that if they’re not, they don’t deserve to survive.
The afternoon light shifts and fades. Nurses come and go, checking Leon’s vitals, adjusting his IV. They move quietly, professionally, nodding when I hold my finger to my lips and gesture at Mina.
Mina stirs around five o’clock. It’s a gradual thing. A shift in her breathing, a small sound in the back of her throat, a furrowing of her brow. She’s dreaming, I realize. And from the way her hands have started to tremble, it’s not a pleasant dream.
“Don’t— Don’t take… Please—”
I rise from my chair and cross to her, crouching beside the armchair.
“Mina.” I keep my voice soft and gentle. The voice I might use to soothe a frightened animal. “Mina, wake up.”
Her eyes fly open and she seizes my shoulders. “Don’t take him!”
For a moment she stares at me without recognition, her body tensed to flee, her breath coming fast and shallow. The monster from her nightmare is crouching right in front of her.
The nightmare fades. She sees Leon, still sleeping peacefully, and some of the tension drains out of her.
“Cristiano.” She sits up, pushing her hair out of her face. “How long was I—” She stops, her eyes going wide. “The test. The blood test. Did they—”
“I’m a match.”
I watch the emotions flicker over her face. Confusion, then disbelief, then a hope so raw it almost hurts to look at.
“You’re sure?” she asks, her voice high and tight.
I take her face in my hands.
“I’m sure. Blood type, tissue markers, everything. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears, desperate, terrified, and relieved all at once.
“Oh God.” Her voice breaks. “Oh God, Cristiano.”
She’s crying now, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking with the force of it. The terror of the past week finally has an outlet.
“He’s going to be okay,” I tell her. “Do you understand? Leon is going to be okay.”
She nods, but she can’t stop crying. Can’t stop shaking.
“I thought—” She gasps for breath. “I thought you were going to say no. When you found out, I thought—”
“I know what you thought.”
She flinches slightly, but I don’t let go of her face. My thumbs brush away her tears, one after another, even as new ones fall.
“You thought I was going to refuse,” I say quietly. “You thought I was going to punish you by letting our son die.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“Mina.” I tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “I’m not my father.”
“I know,” she whispers.
But I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t really believe me.
Or is it that she’s afraid I’m something far worse than he ever was?
A nurse appears in the doorway and knocks on the half-open door. “Mr. Montoni? Dr. Whitman from psychological services would like to speak with you. It’s a required evaluation before the surgery can proceed.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Mina, reluctant to take my hands away from her face now that I’m touching her.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Cristiano…thank you. I don’t know how to—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t thank me for saving my own son’s life.” I stop, and take a breath. “We’ll talk later. But right now, I need to go convince a psychologist that I’m mentally stable enough to donate an organ.”
Mina’s eyebrows rise, and she tenses, worry flickering in her eyes.
My voice drops, low, intimate, and darkly ironic. “What? I am. Or at least I can be very convincing, remember?”
Taking advantage of her racing thoughts, I lean forward and press a slow kiss to her forehead, before rising to my feet.
The psychologist is a rumpled man with kind eyes. He introduces himself as Dr. Whitman and gestures for me to sit across from him in a small consultation room.
“Mr. Montoni. I appreciate you making time for this. I know it’s been a difficult day.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He glances through some papers. “I’d like to start by understanding the circumstances. You learned that Leon was your son…when, exactly?”
“A few hours ago.”
He nods, his eyes flickering over my face, hunting for clues as to my state of mind. “And you’ve already agreed to donate a portion of your liver.”
“Yes,” I say calmly.