Chapter 3 - The Fortress Cracks
When I opened my eyes again, the pale gray light of early dawn was filtering through the sheer curtains. The rhythmic, mechanical drip of the IV was gone, replaced by the faint scent of warm cedarwood and black coffee. I tried to sit up, but a sharp, burning throb in my lower back sent a wave of nausea crashing over me. A gentle but unyielding hand immediately pressed against my shoulder, keeping me flat against the pillows.
""Don't move,"" Luca’s voice came from the gloom beside the bed.
He looked unrecognizable. The immaculate, untouchable billionaire CEO was gone. He hadn't shaved, dark stubble shadowing his hollow cheeks, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. Dark violet circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and the silver watch on his wrist—a timepiece worth more than a family home—lay discarded on the nightstand alongside a towering stack of glossy medical folders.
""Where did you get those?"" I croaked, my throat still dry and raw.
Luca didn't flinch. ""I had my private security team pull Leo’s entire medical dossier from St. Bridget’s at two this morning. I bought the building’s wing thirty minutes later so the hospital board couldn't cite privacy restrictions to keep me out.""
I stared at him in disbelief, a spark of anger cutting through my physical fog. ""You bought the wing? You think you can just throw your black card at a dying child and wash away four years of neglect?""
""I bought it so I could bring the best pediatric hematologists on the planet onto his case without bureaucratic delays!"" Luca snapped back, his voice rising before he caught himself and lowered it, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair. ""Nora, look at me. Please.""
I looked at him. Truly looked at him for the first time in years. The arrogant, indifferent mask he wore for Wall Street had completely disintegrated. In its place was a man who looked terrified to breathe.
""He looks like me,"" Luca whispered, his fingers tracing the corner of a high-resolution photograph clipped to the front of the medical chart. It was a picture of Leo taken three months ago, before the heavy rounds of medication had stolen the color from his cheeks. A little boy with messy dark curls, an impish grin, and the distinctive slate-gray eyes of the Ferraro bloodline. ""He has the cleft in his chin. He has my grandfather’s eyes.""
""He has your stubbornness, too,"" I muttered, looking toward the ceiling. ""He doesn't cry when they insert the central lines. He just holds his stuffed bear and tells the nurses he's going to be an architect so he can build bridges that never break.""
A choked sound escaped Luca’s throat, and to my utter shock, a tear slipped past his lashes and tracked down his stubbled jaw. Luca Ferraro was weeping in my bedroom.
""Why didn't you tell me when he was diagnosed?"" he asked, his voice cracking down the middle. ""Even if you hated me, even if you despised this marriage and everything I put you through... why wouldn't you tell me my son was dying?""
""Because you made it abundantly clear what our marriage was, Luca!"" I shouted, the emotion tearing through my chest despite the agony in my spine. ""Every time I tried to talk to you about personal matters, you told me to run it through your executive assistant! When I asked you to come home for dinner last Thanksgiving, you sent me a five-carat sapphire necklace and flew to Tokyo! You treated me like a trophy you bought at an auction to satisfy your family’s legacy requirements. How was I supposed to tell a man who couldn't even give me twenty minutes of conversation that he had a four-year-old child fighting for his life in a pediatric ward?""
Luca bowed his head, resting his forehead against the edge of the mattress. His large shoulders shook silently. ""You're right,"" he choked out. ""God help me, Nora, you're right. I was so consumed with proving to my father that I could run the empire alone, so obsessed with control... that I built a fortress and locked myself inside with my own arrogance.""
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He lifted his head, his gray eyes red-rimmed and filled with a desperate, burning resolve. ""Mercer told me everything about the transplant. The doctors took marrow from you because they had no other choice, but the graft isn't taking the way they hoped. His cell counts are plummeting this morning. Mercer said they need an identical HLA match, or the cellular rejection will trigger organ failure within seventy-two hours.""
He reached out and picked up his leather wallet, sliding out his state identification and a silver medical donor card. ""I’ve already had my blood drawn downstairs. The lab at St. Bridget’s is running the cross-match right now. Nora... I am begging you on my knees. Take me to my son.""
