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"Ms. D'Amato,you need to be examined."
The nurse's voice is gentle but insistent, her hand on my arm trying to guide me away from Stefano's bed. I tighten my grip on his limp fingers, unwilling to let go.
They've just wheeled him back from surgery, his face even paler than before beneath the bruises, tubes and wires connecting him to machines that beep with steady reassurance. He's alive. For now.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though the throbbing in my cheek and the ache in my ribs tell a different story. "I need to stay with him."
Tomasso steps forward, his normally impassive face showing rare concern. "Ava, let the medical team do their job. For the baby, if nothing else."
The mention of my child—our child—breaks through my stubborn resolve. I glance down at my blood-soaked clothes, suddenly aware of how reckless I'm being.
The baby. I have to protect the baby. It's the only piece of Stefano I might have left if...
I can't finish the thought.
"Ten minutes," I concede, reluctantly releasing Stefano's hand. "Then I'm coming right back."
The nurse nods, relief evident in her expression as she leads me to an adjacent examination room. The private clinic is nothing like a regular hospital. It’s all soft lighting and expensive furnishings, more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility.
It’s the kind of place where Chicago's elite comes to handle their medical emergencies away from public scrutiny. The kind of place where bullet wounds don't raise questions and privacy is guaranteed for the right price.
I sit numbly as the nurse helps me out of my ruined dress, assessing my injuries with professional efficiency. The cut on my cheek needs stitches.
My ribs are bruised, possibly cracked. There are contusions on my wrists from Marco's grip. I have minor lacerations on my palms and knees from the warehouse floor.
But the baby, miraculously, appears to be fine.
"Heart rate is strong," the obstetrician confirms after examining me. Her eyes are kind, her movements gentle as she runs the ultrasound wand across my stomach. "No signs of distress or trauma that I can detect. You're very lucky, Ms. D'Amato."
Lucky. The word feels absurd given everything that's happened. It feels ridiculous that anything could be right in the world with the man I love fighting for his life just one room away.
"What about Stefano?" I ask, my voice cracking. "Is he going to survive?"
The doctor's expression softens further. "Mr. Rega lost a significant amount of blood, and the internal damage was extensive. The surgical team did everything they could. The next twenty-four hours will be critical." She squeezes my hand. "But he's young and strong. He has every chance."
Every chance. Not certainty. Not even probability. Just chance.
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
"You should rest," the nurse says, helping me into a clean hospital gown. My clothes are beyond salvaging—Marco Fiori's blood has soaked through every fiber, turning the cream dress almost burgundy. "We can bring a cot into Mr. Rega's room if you'd prefer to stay close."
"Yes," I manage. "Please."
After cleaning and stitching the cut on my face and giving me some scrubs to change into, they lead me back to Stefano's room. He hasn't moved, hasn't changed.
He’s still pale. Still unconscious. Still fighting for every breath.
Tomasso stands guard at the door, his posture alert despite the exhaustion evident in his face. Two more of Stefano's men flank the entrance to the private wing, and I have no doubt others are positioned strategically throughout the clinic.
The Fiori organization has been destabilized but not destroyed. Until the power vacuum is filled, we're all vulnerable.
"Any change?" I ask Tomasso as I approach.
He shakes his head, his expression grim. "The doctors say it's up to him now."
I nod, moving past him to reclaim my place at Stefano's bedside. The chair is uncomfortable, but I barely notice as I take his hand in mine once more.
His skin is cool to the touch, his fingers unresponsive.