Page 167 of Safe Word

The nurse faltered for just a moment before continuing.

‘I am inclined to inform you, that the blood type you provided does not completely match Mr Ezio’s. This means… we aren’t able to use it.’

The nurse’s words echoed in my mind, each syllable cleaving straight through me until my fucking brain split open.

Wait… He’s not my father?

The man who haunted every corner of my life. Who broke my mother. Broke me. Who taught me pain before I even had a name for it. He’d loomed over my life like a fog that refused to lift. Every scar on my body, every ounce of anger I carried, all of it traced back to him.

And now, in this sterile quiet of a hospice hallway, I was being told that none of it should have been my burden to bear. That he wasn’t my blood. That the man who had controlled me, haunted me, wasn’t really my father.

The truth collided with a chaos of emotions I couldn’t untangle.

Relief.

Rage.

Grief.

I clenched my fists, nails digging deep. The man who tore me apart wasn’t even mine to hate. My whole life – my pain, my choices – had been shaped by a lie.

The truth wasn’t freedom. It was a noose.

I couldn’t breathe. My chest locked up and the walls seemed to close in.

Then I felt her touch. Soft. Steady. A warm pressure against my hand that pulled me out of the pit.

Her eyes met mine as I turned to her. In her gaze, I found no pity, no judgment – only understanding. Not sympathy, or rehearsed softness. Just a knowing. The kind you only earn through your own ruin. As if she could see the fractures in my soul and was quietly piecing them together.

Her hand tightened. I exhaled, the weight in my chest easing.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. But the way her eyes held mine said more than words ever could.

The charged attraction we’d danced around before gave way to something else. It wasn’t just desire. It was connection, a shared perception of the wounds you don’t show to the world.

A sound caught in the nurse’s throat, then – hesitant, but professional. ‘Mr D’Angelo, I understand this is a lot to process. If you need a moment—’

‘I’m fine,’ I said gruffly.

Paula’s hand was still in mine, her grip strong but unobtrusive. She didn’t let go, and I didn’t pull away.

The nurse shifted, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal something more personal – concern, or maybe hesitation. With effort, I centred my attention at her, though every nerve in my body screamed to walk out of this place and never look back.

‘What happens now?’ I asked, my voice tight.

She delayed her answer, glancing briefly at Paula before her gaze settled back on me. ‘We can file for a donation.’

The words hung in the air, and I swallowed hard, nodding despite the knot in my chest. ‘Let’s do that.’

The nurse smiled faintly, but there was an apologetic look in her eyes that grated at my nerves.

Her voice lowered as if the walls themselves might betray her. ‘Mr Moretti had also provided a blood sample, but he isn’t able to donate his blood to Mr D’Angelo, either.’

She gave me a knowing look.

A strange foreboding shrouded me. The pieces clicked into place on their own, an inevitable, horrifying logic that left no room for doubt. Especially after the words exchanged between Salvatore and Ezio, just as we entered the room.

The nurse left us, the soft click of her heels fading into the distance.