“Mr. Moretti,” he said, “I need medical history. Any family history of immune disorders, neurological conditions, severe allergies, clotting issues, adverse reactions to antibiotics?”
Giovanni turned fully toward him, the businessman returning just enough to organize fear into usefulness.
“No severe allergies. My mother had an autoimmune condition—lupus, diagnosed late. My younger sister had febrile seizures as a child. My father’s side has a history of clotting problems. I can have complete records sent immediately.”
“That would help.”
Giovanni looked at one of the men who had arrived with him. “Marco.”
The man was already pulling out a phone.
Dr. Sullivan continued. “We’re treating aggressively because Luca’s symptoms suggest possible bacterial meningitis. We’ve started antibiotics and fluids. We may need a lumbar puncture to confirm.”
The phrase made the floor tilt beneath me.
Giovanni noticed before anyone else. He reached toward me, then stopped, his hand suspended in the air between old instinct and new boundaries.
I hated that I wanted him to finish the motion.
I hated more that he didn’t.
“Lauren,” he said. “Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His eyes flashed, but he lowered his voice. “This is not the time to prove you can stand alone.”
That sentence cut too close.
Because for fifteen months, standing alone had been the only proof I had.
Before I could respond, a nurse brought a chair. I sat because my knees had begun shaking, not because Giovanni told me to.
Marla appeared at the edge of the curtain. She had regained some color but not confidence.
“Mr. Moretti, I need to verify—”
Giovanni did not look away from Luca. “Speak to my attorney.”
“This is a hospital procedure.”
“Then follow it without approaching my son’s mother like she is trespassing in her child’s emergency.”
Marla’s lips pressed together.
Dr. Sullivan turned toward her. “Ms. Hensley, leave this bay.”
She left.
The nurse beside Luca exhaled quietly, almost imperceptibly.
I lowered my face into my hands.
The adrenaline that had carried me through the rain, the waiting room, the call, and Giovanni’s arrival began to collapse. I was cold. My socks were wet. My hair stuck to my neck. My son was sick, and his father was standing five feet away after more than a year of silence I had chosen.
I felt Giovanni crouch beside my chair before I looked up.
He spoke quietly enough that only I could hear.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
There it was.
Not shouted. Not sharp.
Worse.
Wounded.
I looked at Luca because I could not look at him.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
My silence answered.
Giovanni went very still.
The last time we had been in the same room, we were standing in our bedroom in the Back Bay townhouse while rain hit the windows much like tonight. I had a suitcase by the door. He had blood on his cuff—not his blood, he told me. Never enough explanation. Always enough danger.
I had asked him whether the life he lived would ever be safe.
He had said, “Safe is a word people use when they do not understand power.”