Page 121 of The Don’s Omega

“I do trust you.” He leans toward me. “But I can’t help but worry. If I lost you… I don’t even think I could go on.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I whisper, kissing him softly.

He slips his arms around me. “I love you too much, Marcello. Sometimes it terrifies me.”

“I feel the same.” I stroke his back, kissing his hair. “But it’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything hurt you or our family. Trust me.”

He sighs. “I do.”

Later, after he’s fallen asleep in our bed, he stirs restlessly against my chest. I can tell from his jerky movements and the frantic sounds he makes, he’s having one of his damn dreams.

I hold him tighter, hoping, even in sleep, he’ll realize he’s safe in my arms no matter what. Nothing is going to harm him or our unborn child. If I have to tear down the world to protect them, I will.

Chapter Sixteen

Elio

The rehab wing at Harbor View smells like rubber mats and sweat. The corridors are wide and brightly lit. They’re designed for wheelchairs, walkers, and the slow, careful steps of people learning to trust their bodies again. People like my brother.

I sign in at the front desk and clip a visitor badge to my shirt. I wore the loosest shirt I own to hide my growing belly. It used to hang off me, now it pulls snug across the middle if I’m not careful about how I stand. I’ve been dressing strategically for weeks. Layering, choosing fabrics that drape instead of cling, angling my body when I sit so the bump doesn’t show too much. The strategy works on strangers. It’s starting to fail with everyone else.

Case in point, Mama cornered me three days ago. She gave me a knowing look as she said the family would be overjoyed whenever I was ready to share my news. I stared at her, embarrassed. She simply patted my cheek and walked away without another word.

Fabio, however, still doesn’t know about the pregnancy. He doesn’t know about Marcello, the marriage, the syndicate, the contract, any of it. For months I’ve been living two lives. One at the estate with my husband and his family, and one at this hospital where I’m still just Fabio’s doting big brother.

I’ve walked through these doors dozens of times. Guilt eating at me, I’ve smiled and lied to my brother’s face. I’ve changed the subject when it focused on me too much, slipped off my wedding ring and worn high collars to cover the bite mark Marcello gave me. Not once have I allowed my two worlds to collide.

Today is the day they merge.

My brother is getting stronger. His discharge is two weeks out. He can’t go back alone to the apartment in Millhaven. I’m hoping he’ll never go back. I want him near me, and I can’t leave Marcello. Soon we’ll have a child together, and going back to Millhaven, PA simply isn’t an option.

I need to talk my brother into staying near me. I pray he’ll be receptive. Recovering from open-heart surgery is no simple thing. Fabio needs someone near him to watch over him. He needs to live with me at Marcello’s home until he’s a hundred percent again. I’m not prepared to take no for an answer.

The problem is, I know he’s going to be upset with me when I come clean. He’ll be hurt, furious, possibly even rebellious. Fabio is a good kid and he’s always been easygoing about stuff, but this is different. I’ve never hidden anything this huge from him before. But no matter what happens, our conversation must end with him agreeing to stay with me at Marcello’s home. At least until he’s strong again.

Even after all I’ve been through recently, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more nervous. My gut is churning as I find Fabio in the rehab gym. He’s on a treadmill near the windows, walking at a brisk pace that would have been impossible for him before the surgery.

The gym inside the rehab wing is a large, bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. It overlooks a courtyard with tables and chairs, where patients can sit out in the sun. The equipment inside the gym is spread across padded floors: treadmills, recumbent bikes, low-resistance weight machines, balance boards. A few other patients are working with therapists, mostly older, moving carefully through supervised exercises. Soft music plays from a speaker mounted near the ceiling, some sort of inoffensive jazz.

Fabio is thinner than he was before the surgery. His black hair has grown out and it curls at his neck and behind his ears. His arms are soft where they used to have some definition. The heart condition has shaved him down, all the muscle mass he’d built through his teens stripped away by weeks of stillness and careful recovery. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers.

Even though he looks like a frailer version of himself, it’s wonderful to see him upright and moving. His color is good, warm instead of the ashy pallor he’d had before the surgery. When he sees me his face breaks into a smile that makes him look even younger. My heart aches for the pain I know he’s already been through and for the fresh pain he’s about to experience.

“Elio.” He hits the stop button and steps off the treadmill, a little unsteady.

His physical therapist, a sturdy woman in scrubs named Dee, gives me a friendly nod.

“How’s he coming along?” I ask.

“He’s doing great today,” Dee says. “Twenty minutes on the treadmill, no dizziness. We’re increasing his resistance work next week.”

“That’s amazing.” I smile at Fabio, who’s toweling off his face and trying not to look too pleased with himself. He’s always been a humble kid. “You’ll be at the Olympic trials before you know it,” I tease.

He laughs. “Not sure about that. I can barely walk on a treadmill without holding the rails.”

“Details.” I grin.

He swipes the towel over his sweaty arms. “Dee said I can start light weights next week. Thank God. I’m losing all my muscle definition.”