Chapter 4 - The Doctor's Verdict
Dr. Mercer arrived forty minutes later, carrying two heavy leather medical cases. He was a gray-haired man in his late fifties with calm, methodical hands and the neutral demeanor of someone who had stitched up bullet wounds and delivered mob heirs in equal measure for thirty years.
The master suite on the second floor had been transformed. Fresh linens covered the massive king-sized bed, gas logs flickered in the stone fireplace, and a tray of warm broth and sliced fruit sat on the bedside table.
I lay on the bed, my sweater pulled up just enough to expose my stomach, while Dr. Mercer ran a portable ultrasound transducer across my skin, cold gel sending a shiver through my body.
Nico stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes glued to the small black-and-white monitor set up on a rolling stand.
Suddenly, the room was filled with a loud, rapid, rhythmic sound.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
The baby’s heartbeat.
Nico’s breath hitched again. He uncrossed his arms, taking a step closer to the monitor, his eyes wide, completely captivated by the sound. It was fast—like the beating of a tiny bird’s wings—filling the massive, quiet room with undeniable proof of life.
"Heart rate is strong," Dr. Mercer said smoothly, making a note on his digital tablet. "One hundred and forty-eight beats per minute. Fluid levels look adequate. Growth metrics suggest a gestation period of roughly thirty-four weeks."
Mercer looked up at Nico, then at me. "However, the mother's blood pressure is elevated. Abnormally so. Mrs. Vitale, have you been experiencing swelling in your ankles or headaches?"
"A little," I admitted softly, looking away from Nico. "Over the last few days. I thought it was just the stress of moving... of being on my feet."
Mercer’s face grew serious. He pressed his fingers into the skin above my ankle, watching how slowly the indentation filled back in.
"Mild preeclampsia," Mercer diagnosed calmly, though his words hit the room like a grenade. "Not severe yet, but concerning. She needs absolute rest, low sodium, zero stress, and daily monitoring. If her pressure spikes further, we will be looking at an early delivery via emergency C-section."
Nico’s face went dead white.
"Preeclampsia?" Nico demanded, his head snapping toward Mercer. "Is it dangerous? Is the baby in danger? Is Elena?"
"If managed properly, no," Mercer replied, packing up his ultrasound machine. "But stress is the primary trigger, Nico. High emotional volatility, elevated anxiety... if her body remains in a constant state of fight-or-flight, the placental blood flow decreases. She must remain calm."
Mercer looked at Nico with a subtle, knowing glare that only a family doctor of thirty years could deliver. "That means no arguments, no syndicate business in this wing, and no intense emotional strain. Am I clear?"
Nico swallowed hard, his throat moving stiffly. "Yes. Clear."
Once Mercer had gathered his equipment and left the room under Mateo’s guard, the master suite fell into a profound, suffocating silence. The only sound was the crackle of the gas fire and the winter wind howling against the heavy, double-paned glass windows.
Nico walked slowly around the bed. He stopped beside me, looking down at my pale, exhausted face.
"You heard him," Nico said softly, his voice lower and gentler than I had ever heard it before. "Zero stress."
"Nico," I said, my voice cracking. "How am I supposed to have zero stress when I’m being held captive in a house surrounded by armed guards?"
Nico didn't get angry. He didn't raise his voice. Instead, he slowly sank down onto the edge of the mattress, resting one hip against the wood. He reached out, his long fingers gently pushing a lock of hair away from my sweaty forehead.
"You aren't a captive, Elena," he whispered. "You're safe. For eight months, you were carrying her alone in the dark. You were worrying about rent, about food, about whether someone was following you from the subway. That's over now."
"I was free," I murmured, closing my eyes against his touch, even as my body betrayed me by leaning slightly into his warm hand.
"You were vulnerable," Nico corrected gently. "There's a difference."
He leaned over, pressing his lips to my temple. His kiss was soft, lingering, smelling faintly of mint and cedar.
May you like
"Sleep, Elena," he whispered against my skin. "I’ll be right outside the door. Nobody touches you. Nobody touches our daughter."
When I opened my eyes a few minutes later, he was sitting in the armchair by the fire, his jacket off, his gun holster visible against his crisp white shirt, watching me sleep with the unyielding vigilance of a dragon guarding its most precious treasure.
