Page 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ava

"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.

"I'm back," I whisper, though I don't know if he can hear me. "The baby's fine. Everything's fine. You just need to wake up now."

Machines continue their steady rhythm of beeps and hums. An IV drips clear fluid into his veins.

The oxygen mask fogs slightly with each shallow breath. But there's no response, no recognition, no change in his lifeless expression.

Time blurs as I sit there, holding his hand, willing him to open his eyes. The doctors come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medications, making notes on charts. Nurses change IV bags and monitor readings.

Through it all, I don't move. Can't move. I feel as if my presence, my touch, my stubborn refusal to leave might somehow tether him to this world. Keep him from slipping away to wherever the dying go.

"You should eat something," Tomasso says from the doorway. I hadn't even noticed him enter. "It's been hours."

I shake my head. "I'm not hungry."

"The baby needs nourishment," he counters, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Stefano would want you to take care of yourself. Of his heir."

The reminder hits its mark again. With reluctance, I accept the sandwich and water he offers, though each bite tastes like ash in my mouth.

As I eat, I study Tomasso properly for the first time since this nightmare began. His usually impeccable appearance is disheveled—tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, stubble darkening his jaw.

There's dried blood on his shirt cuffs, though I can't tell if it's his or someone else's. His eyes are bloodshot, haunted by something that looks like guilt.

"I'm sorry," I say suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "For what I said before. For calling you a coward. You were just following his orders."

Tomasso's expression shifts, surprise quickly masked by his professional facade. "You were right," he says after a moment. "I should have stayed with him. Should have found a way to protect him." His gaze moves to Stefano's unconscious form. "You're the brave one. Going in alone. Facing the Fioris. Saving him when I couldn't."

The simple admission stuns me into silence. This man—Stefano's right hand, his most trusted lieutenant—is thanking me. Me, the con artist who infiltrated their world under false pretenses. Who lied and manipulated and nearly got Stefano killed.

"I love him," I whisper, the truth of it settling deep in my bones. "I didn't mean to, didn't want to. But I do."

Tomasso nods, unsurprised. "He's loved you since you were children. Never stopped looking for you." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Even when I told him it was hopeless, that you were probably dead or had changed your identity so completely you'd never be found."

"I wish he'd found me sooner," I admit, my thumb tracing circles on Stefano's knuckles. "Before all this. Before the Fioris and the club and the lies between us."

"He found you exactly when he was meant to." Tomasso's certainty is almost comforting. "And you found your way back to him, despite everything. That's what matters now."

He excuses himself then, returning to his post outside. I'm left alone with Stefano and the weight of everything unsaid between us. Everything I need him to know.

That I love him. That I'm done running. That I want the future he's offered me—not because I have no choice, but because I choose him. Choose us.

"You have to wake up," I tell him, leaning close enough that my lips brush his ear. "You can't die, Stefano. Not now. Not when we've only just begun."

The machines continue their steady rhythm. More hours pass. And still, he doesn't stir.

A soft knock at the door draws my attention.

Tony stands awkwardly in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed from crying or exhaustion or both. He looks so young suddenly—not the surly teenager who's been making my life difficult, but the little boy I practically raised after our parents died.

"Hey," he says, voice rough. "Can I come in?"

I nod, and he shuffles into the room, taking the chair opposite me on Stefano's other side. For a long moment, he just stares at the man in the bed—at the bruises, the tubes, the evidence of violence.

"This is my fault," he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. "All of it. If I hadn't gotten caught, you wouldn't have had to—" His voice cracks. "People died because of me. Because I was stupid and reckless and?—"

"Tony, stop." I cut him off, reaching across Stefano to grasp my brother's hand. "The Fioris did this. Not you. They're the ones who used us, who lied, who tried to destroy everything."

"But if I hadn't been drunk at that bar?—"

"Then they would have found another way to get to us," I say firmly. "They always meant to use us against each other. To use me against Stefano. We were just pieces in their game."

Tony wipes his eyes with his sleeve, trying to hide the tears that have started to fall. "I'm sorry, Ava. For everything. For making things harder when you were just trying to protect me. For not listening. For being such a selfish jerk all the time. I just wanted to find out what really happened to Mom and Dad."

“I know, I know.” I squeeze his hand, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat. The simple apology breaks something open inside me—relief and love and hope all tangled together.

I want to tell him that it was just an accident, not payback for the things our parents had done, but the reality is that I don’t know. And I don’t know if I’ll ever find out. Or if I want to.

"I'm going to do better," he continues, his gaze moving between me and Stefano. "I'm going to be the brother you deserve. The person he," he nods toward Stefano, "thought was worth saving."

I swallow hard, fighting back my own tears. "I'm holding you to that promise, Anthony D'Amato."

He attempts a smile, though it wobbles at the edges. "Is he...is he going to make it?"

I look at Stefano—the man who faced down the Fiori brothers for us, who fought beyond human endurance to keep us safe. Who loved me enough to let me go and loved me enough to bring me back.

"He has to," I say, willing it to be true. "He's too stubborn to die."

Tony nods, his expression solemn as he studies Stefano's still form. "I owe him my life. We both do."

We sit in silence for a while, the magnitude of everything that's happened settling around us. The family we've lost. The family we've found. The uncertain future that hangs in the balance with each beep of the heart monitor.

"You should eat something," Tony says eventually, sounding more like the protective older brother he's never quite managed to be. "I can go find some food if you want."

"That would be good," I admit, suddenly aware of the hollow feeling in my stomach. How long has it been since I had that sandwich? The baby needs nourishment, even if I have no appetite. "Maybe something simple. Soup, if they have it."

He nods, eager to be useful. "I'll find something. Anything else you need?"

"Just come back," I tell him, meaning it more than he probably realizes. "We need to stick together now."

After he leaves, I turn my full attention back to Stefano. The room feels too quiet without Tony's presence, the beeping of the machines too loud. Too ominous.

"See that?" I say to Stefano, stroking his hand. "Tony's finally growing up. Finally becoming the man I always knew he could be. All because of you."

I study his face, memorizing each line, each angle, the evidence of the life he's lived. The slight scar on his temple from some childhood accident. The faint laugh lines around his eyes that only show when he truly smiles. The stubborn set of his jaw, evident even in unconsciousness.

"You need to wake up and see it for yourself," I continue, my voice breaking. "You need to be here when the baby comes. You need to teach our child how to be strong and brave and impossibly stubborn, just like their father."

My hand drifts to my stomach, to the tiny life growing there—a miracle amid so much destruction.

"I never wanted this, you know," I confess quietly. "A baby. A family. I thought I'd just get Tony to safety, start over somewhere new, be free of all the complications and dangers of this life."

The monitors beep steadily, the only response to my admission.

"But now I can't imagine any other future. Can't imagine raising this child without you. Can't imagine walking away from whatever this is between us."

Tears spill down my cheeks, falling onto our joined hands. "I love you, Stefano Rega. I think I've loved you since we were kids, and you showed me that ridiculous knife trick behind the guest house. I definitely loved you the first time you kissed me in the garden, even though I was too young and scared to admit it. And I love you now—the man you've become, not just the boy I remember."

I lean closer, pressing my forehead gently against his. "So, you have to wake up. You have to fight. Because I've spent my whole life running, and I'm finally ready to stay. Ready to be yours, just like you always wanted."

My tears fall freely now, dampening his pillow, his cheek, his hair. All the emotions I've been holding back—fear, grief, love, hope—rush through me.

"Please," I whisper, the word a prayer and a promise. "Come back to me."

I press my lips softly to his, tasting salt and antiseptic and the faint metallic hint of blood still lingering. His lips are cool, unresponsive, but I pour everything I am, everything I feel, into that gentle kiss.

When I pull back, nothing has changed. The machines continue their rhythm. His chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. His eyes remain closed, his expression peaceful but vacant.

I settle back into my chair, never releasing his hand, determined to be here when—if—he wakes.

Minutes stretch into hours, marked only by the mechanical sounds of the life support equipment and the occasional footsteps of medical staff outside the door.

Tony returns with soup and bread, hovering anxiously until I manage to eat most of it. He takes the chair across from me again, and together we keep vigil through the night, sometimes talking softly about memories or about the future, sometimes talking about nothing at all.

As dawn approaches, my exhaustion becomes impossible to fight. My eyes grow heavy, my thoughts fuzzy with fatigue. The nurse brings a cot as promised, setting it up beside Stefano's bed, but I can't bring myself to use it. I can't bear to let go of his hand, even for a moment.

Instead, I rest my head on the edge of his mattress, his fingers still entwined with mine. The position is uncomfortable, but comfort seems like such a trivial concern right now.

"I'll be right here," I promise him, my voice slurred with exhaustion. "As long as it takes. Just come back to me."

As sleep finally claims me, I imagine I feel the slightest pressure against my palm—a twitch, a squeeze, a sign that somewhere in the darkness, he hears me. That he's fighting his way back.

That he's not ready to let go either.