Page 64
My favorite mug—chipped white ceramic printed with a cartoon anatomical heart and featuring the words, “You’ll always have a place in my right ventricle”—comes as well. It was an ugly but endearing residency gift from a fellow intern, and it now claims a spot in Marco’s cabinet beside his matching set of black mugs.
Izzy notes the change in Marco’s quarters during one of her visits. She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at my deep teal throw blanket draped across his armchair. It’s a chunky knit that clashes magnificently with Marco’s aesthetic of black, gray, off-white, and more black.
“You’re nesting.”
“I’m making myself comfortable. There’s a difference.” I don’t glance up from the medical kit I’m reorganizing, a project I’ve taken on voluntarily. I want to upgrade the compound’s emergency supplies as efficiently as possible, utilizing my experience at my underfunded ER. This task keeps my mind engaged since my hospital leave is still ongoing.
“You’re nesting.” Izzy repeats the words with more emphasis before easing into a chair with her usual predatory grace. “Sophia did the exact same thing when she moved in with Enzo. She started leaving books everywhere. Changed the towels.”
My hands still over a roll of medical tape. “I’m not. This isn’t—”
“It’s okay.” A flicker of warmth crosses Izzy’s face. “Marco’s different with you. I think I like your influence on him.”
“Different how?”
Her dark eyes are thoughtful as she considers the question. “He used to walk around this compound like he was always on the edge. Now he puts on the act of someone who belongs.”
The observation stays with me as I schedule myself for a shift in the Benedetti clinic.
The work starts small, in a corner of the medical room that smells of antiseptic and old bandages. Just an afternoon a week to start. By the second week, though, I’m treating everything from construction injuries to ear infections plaguing the soldiers’ children. The waiting area always stays full, the plastic chairs consistently occupied by men with calloused hands, women with worried eyes, and kids who stare with the frank curiosity only the very young possess.
The compound’s medical area sits close enough to the city that on clear days, the skyline rises along the horizon from the upper floors. The Empire State Building and the One World Trade Center stand like distant sentinels against the sky.
On days when I need to remember why I became a doctor, I look at those towers and remind myself of everything this city has survived. Those buildings, erected after catastrophe, are a sign of perseverance.
On one Thursday afternoon, Marco finds me in the clinic. He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, observing me as I work. I’m surrounded by drawings taped to the wall, a suggestion from Sophia to help the younger patients feel more at home. Their crayon masterpieces share the space with anatomical charts. Exhaustion gnaws at me, but satisfaction blooms in my chest.
“You’ve made this place yours.” His eyes rake over the room before landing on me again.
“Maybe. I figured I should pull my weight while I’m here.” I glance up, meeting his gaze. “The famiglia takes care of its own, right?”
He doesn’t respond, but his expression softens.
Later, over dinner in the main villa with Enzo, Sophia, Izzy, and Nico, the conversation centers on the problem at hand. The dining room air is thick with garlic and rosemary, of good wine, and of the cozy vanilla and white jasmine fragrance Sophia wears.
Sophia scoots her chair back as she gets situated, and Enzo immediately adjusts his own seat so his pregnant wife has more space. Sophia’s pregnancy doesn’t seem to slow her down at all. She seems to be handling it with the same quiet grace she carries everything else, looking comfy beside her husband, resting a hand over her growing bump.
“The Volkov situation isn’t going away.” Enzo’s voice is heavy. It must be such a burden living with the weight of decisions he knows will affect many people’s lives. “They’re testing boundaries and probing for weaknesses. The information Tomas shared bought them leverage they shouldn’t have.”
At the mention of Tomas, my skin crawls. I’m back in that moment, with the cold metal of the gun barrel against my temple. I can smell the stench of his breath and taste squirming terror in my throat.
Marco’s hand finds my knee under the table.
“We need to send a message.” Nico’s tablet rests beside his plate, and the blue glow casts strange shadows on his face. “A gesture to let everyone know we’re not weak.”
Sophia peers at me from across the table, and an understanding passes between us. We’ve both chosen to get involved with dangerous men.
“What if the message isn’t about violence?” The words leave my mouth before I’ve fully formed the thought.
Everyone looks at me. In the thick silence that follows, I set my fork down.
“The Volkovs are watching us and waiting for cracks. But they’re also watching for legitimacy, strength, and the appearance of stability.” I meet Enzo’s gaze. “What looks more stable than a family celebrating? What looks more united than a wedding?”
The table goes silent. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes the hour.
“You’re suggesting…what?” Nico emphasizes the question with his upturned palms.
“I’m suggesting we make this fake engagement public.” My heart pounds against my ribs, but my voice stays even. This is the same voice I use when delivering difficult news to patients’ families. “Let’s throw a party. Invite everyone who matters. Let the Volkovs see Marco and me as a united front and not as a weakness to exploit.”
