Page 13 of Forbidden Vengeance

“He was counting my contractions like he was timing a hit.” A weak smile crosses her beautiful face. “I told him if he didn’t stop, I’d name both babies after Mario just to spite him.”

The joke hits too close to home, but I force myself to smile. “That’s my girl. Always knowing exactly where to stick the knife.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Elena. You’re the sister I never had.”

Before guilt can choke me completely, Bella’s face contorts in pain. The monitors start screaming, and suddenly the room is full of doctors and nurses.

Matteo bursts in, his face thunderous, but I barely notice.

A nurse practically shoves me out of the room as more medical staff rush in. My whole body trembles as I lean against the wall, praying to a god I stopped believing in years ago.

Please, not Bella. Not the babies. Not when I haven’t had the chance to make things right.

The sound of medical equipment and urgent voices continues to filter through, muffled but no less frightening.

My heels seem to mock me now, their confident click-click against the linoleum floor transformed into something uncertain and faltering. The hallway stretches before me like a tunnel, its fluorescent lights casting everything in that particular shade of hospital green that makes even the healthy look sick.

A janitor’s cart stands abandoned near the wall, the smell of industrial cleaner mixing with the ever-present antiseptic that seems to seep from the very walls.

I pass Room 305, where a young mother cradles her newborn, her family’s soft cooing and congratulations drifting out. Room 306 holds another woman in labor, the rhythmic beeping of fetal monitors a stark reminder of what’s at stake.

Each step feels like walking through water, my body moving on autopilot while my mind races with possibilities I can’t bear to consider.

A nurse hurries past, her scrubs brushing my arm, and I press myself against the wall to let her pass. The contact jolts me back to awareness—to the weight of my phone in my jacket pocket, to the way my hands won’t stop trembling, to the copper taste of anxiety in my mouth.

I realize I’ve been biting my lip hard enough to draw blood.

I continue walking, each step a reminder of how far away I am from being able to help. I’m good at solving problems, at making things happen, at pulling strings and calling in favors.

But here, in this sterile corridor with its too-bright lights and whispered prayers, none of that matters. I can’t plan or manipulate or scheme my way out of this. I can only walk, one foot in front of the other, back to where Bianca waits.

A cleaning cart squeaks past, and I catch my reflection in its metal surface—my carefully applied makeup still perfect, my black dress unwrinkled, my ponytail sleek and professional. I look exactly like what I am: someone playing a part, wearing clothes made of designer labels and perfect poise.

Someone whose best friend is fighting for her babies’ lives while carrying the weight of too many secrets.

The waiting room appears ahead, its uncomfortable chairs and old magazines a tableau of suspended anxiety. Bianca’s figure comes into view, and the sight of her—so young, so scared, trying so hard to be strong—makes my chest ache. She looks up as I approach, and I force my face into something resembling composure.

For all her attempts at being a hardened DeLuca, right now she’s just a terrified eighteen-year-old. Her clothes—the Saint Laurent leather jacket she probably borrowed from Bella’s closet—can’t hide how young she looks huddled in the uncomfortable hospital chair.

“What’s happening?” Her voice cracks. “I heard the monitors, and Dad…I’ve never seen him move so fast.”

I can’t lie to her. Not about this. “There were complications. The monitors started screaming, and?—”

“No.” Bianca covers her face with trembling hands. “Dad can’t lose them. He can’t lose Bella.”

She looks up at me, suddenly seeming so young. “You don’t understand, Elena. I’ve never seen him like this—happy, actuallyhappy. Our house finally feels like a home.” Her voice catches. “It finally feels like I have a real family.”

Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them back. My phone buzzes with a text from Anthony:Missing you already. Dinner tomorrow? I have something special planned.

I ignore it, irritation flaring. Like I care about his plans when my best friend could be losing her babies.

“I’m getting us coffee,” I declare, needing to feel useful.

Bianca stares at me, as if unable to comprehend the sentence I just uttered. “The coffee here is shit,” she finally manages to get out.

“I don’t care,” I respond, marching away.

The fluorescent-lit hallway stretches endlessly, the squeak of nurses’ shoes and beeping monitors creating a symphony of anxiety. I pass other dramas unfolding—worried families huddled in corners, doctors delivering news both good and bad, a young mother crying over a newborn. The sharp scent of antiseptic can’t quite mask the underlying smell of fear.

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