Chapter 12 - [THE MAFIA BOSS WOKE UP AND ASKED ME A SINGLE QUESTION]
I stood up, my knees trembling so violently I had to grip the plastic waiting room chair to stay upright.
Dr. Aris walked toward me, his scrubs stained with the grueling effort of the last seven hours.
He stopped a few feet away, exhaling a long, heavy breath.
Then, a small, tired smile broke across his face.
“He’s incredibly stubborn, Ellen,” the surgeon said. “The tissue held. The new heart is beating perfectly. He’s in recovery.”
I let out a sob that echoed down the empty hospital corridor, dropping my face into my hands.
The relief was a physical weight lifting off my chest, so heavy I hadn’t realized it was crushing me until it was gone.
Two days later.
The sun was shining brightly through the window of the cardiovascular ICU.
I sat beside Salvatore’s bed. He was extubated, breathing on his own, the color in his cheeks a healthy, vibrant flush that I hadn’t seen since the day we met.
His eyes fluttered open.
He blinked against the bright light, his gaze slowly tracking around the room before finally landing on me.
I leaned forward, taking his warm hand in mine.
“Welcome back, Mr. DeLuca,” I smiled, wiping a happy tear from my cheek.
He squeezed my fingers. His grip was weak, but steady.
He looked at me for a long time, processing the monitors, the beeping, and the absolute reality that he was still here.
Then, his lips curved into a raspy, exhausted smirk.
“Are you finally going to let me have a cup of coffee?” he croaked.
I laughed, a bright, joyous sound. “Not a chance. You’re on strict dietary protocol for the next three weeks.”
“You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I’m the best nurse you’ve ever had.”
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers securely through mine. The humor faded from his eyes, replaced by that deep, quiet intensity that I had fallen in love with.
“Yes, you are,” he whispered.
Six weeks later, Salvatore was discharged.
We didn’t go back to the sprawling, dark DeLuca mansion. Salvatore had sold it while he was in rehab.
Instead, we drove to a beautiful, modern townhouse near the clinic. It had massive windows, a small garden, and not a single shadow for a ghost to hide in.
That evening, a crisp autumn chill settled over Chicago.
Salvatore stood by the stone fireplace in our new living room. A fire crackled brightly on the hearth.
I walked up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. I could feel the strong, steady beat of his new heart against his ribs.
He turned around in my arms. In his hands, he held the faded burgundy electric blanket. The one Anna had bought. The one his father had weaponized. The one that had started everything.
We had kept it as evidence, but the feds had returned it a week ago, closing the case.
Salvatore looked at the blanket, then at me.
“We don’t need this to keep warm anymore,” he said softly.
May you like
I smiled, nodding in agreement.
Together, we tossed the heavy fabric into the fireplace. We stood side by side, holding hands, watching the flames consume the toxic past, turning the last piece of the DeLuca nightmare into nothing but smoke and ash.
