We’ll review what happened after the immediate crisis is under control.”
Marla removed her hands from the keyboard as if it had suddenly burned her.
Giovanni did not smile.
He did not threaten her or ask anyone to drag her away.
He simply turned to me.
“Take me to him.”
The words were controlled, but pain lived underneath them.
Dr.
Sullivan allowed us into Luca’s treatment room one at a time.
I went first.
Giovanni followed after changing into a disposable gown and washing his hands under a nurse’s supervision.
He stopped two feet from the bed.
Luca looked impossibly small beneath the white blanket.
A clear line ran into his arm.
Adhesive sensors covered his chest.
His cheeks were flushed, and his breathing came in shallow bursts.
Giovanni stared at him for several seconds without moving.
“That’s my son?”
I nodded.
His eyes found the dark curl resting against Luca’s damp forehead, then the shape of his nose and the small crease in his chin.
They shared that crease.
“His name is Luca?”
“Luca James Grant.”
Giovanni flinched at the surname but said nothing.
He approached the bed and placed one finger near Luca’s hand.
Luca’s fingers closed around it by reflex.
Giovanni stopped breathing.
I had watched powerful men wait for Giovanni’s approval.
I had seen lawyers lower their voices when he entered a room.
I had once watched an entire restaurant fall silent because he walked through the door.
None of that power helped him now.
He stood beside a sick baby who did not know him, unable to do anything except offer one finger.
“How long have you known?” he asked.
“Since shortly after the divorce.”
His eyes remained on Luca.
“Fifteen months.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“You hid my child from me for fifteen months.”
The accusation landed harder because he whispered it.
“I was trying to protect him.”
“From me?”
“From your life.”
His jaw tightened.
“You knew who I was when you married me.”
“I knew what you allowed me to see.”
He finally looked at me.
For a moment, the hospital room disappeared, and I was back in our old house behind iron gates, listening to cars arrive after midnight and watching Giovanni conceal bloodless but frightening conversations behind closed doors.
He had never struck me.
He had never shouted at me.
That had almost made leaving harder.
He could be gentle at breakfast and terrifying by dinner without ever changing the volume of his voice.
When I discovered I was pregnant, I had imagined our child growing up surrounded by armed guards, whispered warnings and enemies inherited before he could speak.
“Every time your phone rang at two in the morning, I wondered whether someone was coming through the door,” I said.
“I couldn’t give that fear to a baby.”
Giovanni looked back at Luca.
