Page 38 of DeLucas After Dark

“So you have everything you need?”

“If you know an excellent orthopedic surgeon, we could use one to save Tácito’s hand.”

“Fucking Pierangelo! I’ll see what I can do.”

In minutes, we pull up to the emergency intake area and I help Tácito inside. Once he’s on the mend, Sloane will learn that although I am grateful she is alive and well, putting herself in the line of fire is unacceptable. A month, I decide. I’ll tie her to the bed for thirty days where her complaints will be background noise. Until she learns how precious she is, she’ll stay where I put her.

A nurse greets us with an overworked smile of concern. Enzo’s people are on point. As soon as I mention my name, he wheels Tácito to a private examination room where a doctor orders scans of Tácito’s damaged hand.

Once the images come through, everything passes in a blur. They rush Tácito to surgery while Sloane and I wait to hear news. After six hours, the staff shares the post-op steps we’ll have to take to insure there’s no infection and the timeline for recovery. Although they believe the procedure to be successful, it could take months to confirm.

The doctor prescribes pain medication for Tácito and makes sure he gets the first dose before leaving. Because of my insistence, they’ll allow Tácito to rest here for the night. When Tácito’s eyes glaze and his body relaxes, some of the tension leaves my body. I stand behind Sloane as she brushes Tácito’s hair from his face.

“I’m going to ask Marisol to teach me to cook your favorite meals while your hand heals up.”

Tácito laughs, causing Sloane to pout. “She’ll move in before she’ll trust you to cook for me. But I’ll eat by your hand alone. How about that?”

She leans forward to kiss him on his cheek. “I promise to make every feeding session memorable.”

As she rises, a look of alarm comes over Tácito’s face.

“Valentino?” she asks in an odd voice.

“Yes, principessa.”

“Catch me.”

TÁCITO

As color drains from Sloane, I reach for her with my good hand, unmindful of the IV distributing my pain medication. Not that I would be able to do much in my condition that wouldn’t bruise her or possibly harm the baby.

All the fears brought up by our recent harrowing experience hasn’t had time to calm. I still see Sloane risking her and our baby’s lives while trying to protect us, straining herself to lift and pull me to safety then doing the same for herself. Superimposed on her was the image of her bleeding out while I fought to save her life and sacrifice another.

As I watch her fall backwards, asking Valentino to catch her, he closes the gap between them to easily save her from hitting her head on the ground.

“Is she bleeding?” I shout. “Check for blood. We need to save the baby. We can’t let them die. Never again,” I sob uncontrollably, thrashing and trying to leave my bed but getting tangled in the wires. My body is a sum of alien parts, none coordinating with the other and only working to hamper my movements.

Valentino’s response doesn’t register over my frantic demands to save this pregnancy. This child.

I barely notice the doctors and nurses that enter the room to cart Sloane off or the nurses injecting my IV with more drugs. I mumble incoherently as these drugs work faster than the last dose, then I black out.

When I wake up, I’m in a position I’m unused to. Valentino is the one who shares hospital rooms with Sloane, not me. And I’m usually the one taking care of their wounds, not strangers who speak another language. I sit up and start pulling out needles so I can check on my wife.

“Sit your ass down and stay there,” Valentino barks at me. He sits in a chair between my bed and Sloane’s, but zeroes in all his attention on me.

I glare back at him, seething at the leashed violence in his tone. “I need to check on our wife.”

He studies me as if trying to unearth my secrets, but I’ve held onto this one so long. “What you need to do is explain the shit you were saying before they checked her out.”

I glance toward Sloane who lies still on her bed, her diagnosis unknown.

“She was dehydrated. They put her on saline and she’ll wake up soon. And the baby’s fine,” he bites without looking away from me.

Sloane turns her head. A wrinkle furrows her brow but her eyes remain closed, a sign she’ll soon rouse.

“Now explain what you meant when you said you won’t survive if we lose another baby.”

I swing my head to meet his glare. “I said that?”

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