Chapter 4

The air in the hospital room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of fear.

I woke up with a throbbing headache and a terrifying hollowness in my gut.

"Mrs. Falcone?"

A doctor in a white coat stood over me. He looked nervous. Everyone who worked for the Family always looked like they were waiting for a bullet.

"The baby?" I rasped, my hand flying to my stomach.

"The fetus is intact," he whispered, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "It was a close call. You have severe bruising on your ribs and a concussion, but the pregnancy holds."

I let out a sob that I quickly stifled with my hand.

"Thank God. Thank Dante."

"Mrs. Falcone... does the father know? I need to update the chart."

"The father is dead," I said flatly.

The doctor blinked, his pen hovering over the clipboard. "But... Don Falcone is in the hallway."

"He is not the father," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "And you will not tell him. If you value your life, you will write 'abdominal trauma' on that chart and nothing else. Do you understand?"

The doctor paled. He nodded rapidly.

The door swung open.

Luca walked in.

He looked... annoyed.

Not worried. Annoyed.

"You're awake," he said, standing at the foot of the bed.

He didn't ask how I was.

"Who died?" he asked abruptly. "I heard you talking about someone dead."

"My patience," I said, staring at the ceiling.

He scoffed. "Stop with the drama. It was a few stairs. You're lucky you didn't break anything."

"I have a concussion, Luca."

"Sofia has a panic attack because of you. She's been crying all night."

I slowly turned my head to look at him.

He truly believed it.

He was so blinded by his need to be the savior, the white knight in a blood-stained suit, that he couldn't see the viper coiled in his sheets.

"I didn't touch her," I said.

"Don't lie to me. I saw her on the floor."

"You saw what she wanted you to see. There are cameras in the hallway. Check them."

"I don't need cameras. I trust her."

Of course he did.

"Get up," he said. "We're leaving."

"I just woke up, Luca."

"Sofia is waiting in the car. She wants an apology."

I froze.

"You want me... to apologize to her?"

"You assaulted her. It's the least you can do to keep the peace. I don't want war in my own house."

I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He was a giant of a man, powerful, lethal, feared by millions.

But in this moment, he was small.

"Fine," I said.

The fight left me.

It wasn't surrender. It was a tactical retreat.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to protect the life inside me. Stress was poison.

I swung my legs over the bed, wincing sharp breath as the pain in my ribs flared hot.

I dressed in silence.

We walked to the car.

Sofia was in the back seat, checking her nails.

When I opened the door, she looked up with a pout.

"Luca, is she going to hit me again?"

"No," Luca said, getting into the driver's seat. "She's going to apologize."

He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

I met Sofia's eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry you felt the need to throw yourself on the floor to get attention. It must be exhausting being you."

"Luca!" Sofia shrieked.

"Elena!" Luca warned.

"I apologized," I said, leaning back and closing my eyes. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Are we done?"

The car was silent.

Luca started the engine, revving it louder than necessary.

He was unsettled.

He expected me to fight. He expected me to cry, to beg for his belief.

My indifference was a language he didn't speak.

He didn't know that I had already checked out.

I wasn't his wife anymore.

I was just a passenger, waiting for my stop.