“You likely have a concussion,” she says softly, voice calm but firm. “You need to take it easy and relax.”
I blink, trying to clear the fog. A concussion. That explainsthe pressure behind my eyes and the cotton-thick haze clinging to every thought.
For a second, I can’t remember how I got here. Then it clicks back into place. The explosion, the elevator?—
“Where’s Maximo? The man they brought in with me, Maximo Luciani?” I demand.
“You’ll be able to see him soon. He’s being checked out as well. Don’t worry, you’re both going to be fine,” she says.
The nurse leaves a moment later, and the doctor comes in, tablet in hand, his white coat rustling as he pulls up a chair beside my bed. His expression is professional yet gentle, with the weary edge of someone who has delivered bad news too often.
“Your scans don’t show any internal bleeding, which is good,” he begins. “You do have a concussion. That means rest, no screens, and someone needs to stay with you for at least the next few days in case your symptoms worsen.”
I nod, half-relieved, half-exhausted. But the doctor isn’t done. He clears his throat, glances at his chart again, and says, “There’s something else, Ms. Monroe. Your bloodwork suggests that you’re…you’re in the very early days of pregnancy.”
For a moment, the words don’t land. Pregnancy? The word means nothing to my shell-shocked brain at first. Then, my breath catches as the meaning sinks in.
The doctor keeps talking…timelines…follow-up with an OBGYN… warnings about stress, but his voice fades into the background as my mind spins.
Pregnancy. A baby. I’m pregnant with Maximo’s baby.
I don’t know if I’m shocked or numb. Maybe both.
I press my hands against my lower belly, as if I can feel the truth beneath my skin. I can’t. Not yet. But knowing is enough to send a tidal wave of emotion through me, a dizzying mix offear, disbelief, and something deeper I’ve never experienced and can’t yet name.
The doctor stands. “You’re free to go once you’re discharged, but you’ll need someone with you until you’re past the worst of the concussion symptoms. Do you have someone to watch over you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My voice sounds strange, distant even to my own ears. “I do.”
With a nod, he pats my arm and leaves the room. Something seems to leave with him, maybe my peace of mind. Whatever it is, the room feels colder and emptier when I’m left alone with my thoughts.
I barely have time to take a deep breath and try to gather myself before the door swings open again.
Maximo steps inside, still in the same clothes he’d been wearing at the tower. Dirt and faint streaks of blood cling to him like merit badges of survival. His jaw is hard, his expression murderous, but when his eyes land on me, something in them softens. Just slightly.
“We’re leaving,” he says. No preamble. No tenderness, just the raw edge of a man who’s done being a target.
“Okay. I just saw the doctor. They should be getting ready to discharge me.”
“Good. The hospital is too exposed.” He crosses the room in two strides, fingers brushing lightly along my wrist. “Leonard is still here. The old man’s a wreck, so we’re giving him a ride home once you’re ready. I’ve already given my statement to the police. They’ll want to talk to you tomorrow, but tonight we’re not fucking staying here another minute.”
For a moment, I want to argue. I’m exhausted, and all I want to do is sink into the pillow and let sleep take me. But the thought of staying here, in these glaring lights with strangerswalking the halls, makes my skin crawl. Especially with the urgency in Maximo’s voice when he said, “We’re too exposed.”
I force a weak smile. “Fine. But next time, I’m booking a hotel for us. One of the nice ones, with room service and ridiculously thick bathrobes, like at your house.”
To my surprise, his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “That’s an idea I can get behind. A hotel where no one knows us is a great plan. I’ll make some arrangements under a false name.”
Before I can reply, a knock sounds at the door. It opens without waiting for permission, and two men in suits step inside, flanking a tall, broad-shouldered figure I don’t recognize.
But Maximo does. “Salvatore Bianchi. While I appreciate the personal visit, what the fuck are you doing here?”
Salvatore Bianchi, the man Maximo had calledThe Diavolo Bianco, one of Maximo’s peers, or more accurately, his rivals.
“Well, well,” Salvatore says, his voice smooth and heavy with an accent. “I had to see for myself. The woman who has got Maximo Luciani turning this city upside down.” His eyes linger on me, sharp as knives, before shifting back to Maximo. “We need to talk.”
I don’t like his smile. I like it even less when he reveals the truth. “Maximo, you know I have interests in the shipping business out west. The Volkovs and I have a mutually beneficial arrangement helping them move goods and bypass all those pesky sanctions. When they told me they wanted to expand into New York, I warned them they’d be stepping on your toes, but I agreed to stay out of it as long as they didn’t interfere in my territories.”
“You did more than give them permission,” Maximo practically spits the words. “You called me yourself with that load of horse shit about the Chinese trying to branch out. The Volkovs have done a hell of a lot more than try to ‘branch out’, Salvatore.They’ve tried to kill us, repeatedly. Tell me why I shouldn’t blame you for everything that’s happened?”
