Chapter 15: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

My skull feels like someone’s taken a hammer to it. Every pulse behind my eyes sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through my stomach, and the soft click of the car’s turn signal might as well be a gunshot.

Apparently, a whiskey hangover turns me dramatic. Or maybe it’s all hangovers. Not that I’d know since this is my first one. All I know is that if I never touch whiskey again, it’ll still be too soon.

The morning light cuts through the tinted windows of Domenico’s car, and I squint against it, pressing my fingertips to my temples. Even after brushing my teeth three times, my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls soaked in battery acid.

I discreetly look at my husband from the corner of my eye. He looks as stoic as ever while driving. Instead of having one hand on my leg, he holds the steering wheel with both. His expression is as readable as a brick wall.

He hasn’t said a word since telling me Dr. Morgan was ready to see us. And before that, he didn’t speak at all. Well, that’s not true. He did tell me I’d chosen one hell of a day for my first hangover when he noticed me squinting at the light.

I remember last night in fragments, each one landing with the grace of a falling anvil. There are enough memories to create a picture of my behavior and my accusations. What was I thinking?

I guess I wasn’t, and that’s the problem. I was drunk and terrified and so angry I couldn’t see straight. Now I’m hungover and exhausted and scared for Mom. And… I think a part of me is still angry. I’m not completely sure why, but it’s definitely there.

Domenico turns onto the hospital street, and the building rises ahead of us. My stomach drops. Mom’s in there. The thought should be enough to drown out everything else, but it isn’t. Because Domenico’s silence is sitting between us like a third person in the car.

He’s quiet in that particular way that means he’s turning something over, examining it from every angle, and I have no idea what conclusion he’s reaching. Or what his problem even is.

Is it me? Maybe last night’s outburst proved to be too much trouble for him.

We pull into the parking garage, and the darkness is a relief after the morning glare. Domenico cuts the engine and sits for a moment, his eyes on the concrete pillar ahead of us. I wait, because what else can I do? My head throbs in time with my heartbeat.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Just that. No reference to last night, no acknowledgment of the elephant taking up the entire back seat.

I nod, because speaking feels like too much effort, and push my door open. The cool garage air hits my face, and for a second, it helps. Then I stand up too fast, and the world tilts. My hand finds the roof of the car, and I close my eyes until the spinning stops.

When I open them, Domenico’s watching me from his side of the car, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t,” I mutter. “Just don’t.” That earns me half a smile.

Much to my dismay, a woman with a toddler gets on the elevator with us. Luckily, the kid is too busy staring at Domenico to make much noise. He doesn’t acknowledge the stare, he just stands there, taking up more space than any one person has a right to.

We cross the lobby, and every step sends a fresh spike through my temples. By the time we reach the bank of elevators for the neurology floor, I’ve given up on pretending I’m functional. I lean against the wall and press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

“Here.” Domenico’s voice is low, close to my ear. Something presses into my hand—a small bottle of water and two white pills. Where did he get this from? Right, he must have brought it from home.

I look at the pills, then at him.

“It’s just aspirin,” he says. “Not poison. Though after last night, you might prefer the poison.”

There it is, the first reference to last night. My cheeks burn, and it has nothing to do with the hangover. I swallow the pills and drain the water in one go. God, I still feel like I could go through another ten bottles.

Thankfully, no one else gets on the elevator with us, and we make the last part of the journey to the neurology floor in peace. I’m two steps into the corridor when Domenico’s hand closes around my wrist and he stops me.

“Listen to me, Kira.”

I turn back to look at him. “What?”

His free hand comes up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “You might be angry with me right now,” he murmurs. “But I’m here. You’re my wife, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in my chest cracks at his words, which land exactly where he wants them to. It bothers me that after last night—after the whiskey, after the accusations I hurled at him like they were weapons—this is what I needed to hear.

The only thing that should offer me relief is good news about Mom. Not… reassurances from Domenico. Yet my body reacts before my brain can catch up, and I push up on my tiptoes so I can kiss my husband.

My lips find his, and for one second, he goes completely still, and I think I’ve made a mistake. But when his hand moves to the back of my neck, and he kisses me back with a hunger that makes my knees weak, I sigh happily into his mouth.

It lasts three seconds. Four, maybe. Then I pull back, my heart hammering against my ribs, and the look in his eyes is enough to make me want to kiss him again.

“I’m still angry,” I inform him. If I’m being honest, I’m mostly saying it to remind myself.

“I know.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You can be angry and kiss me. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

With a sharp nod, I turn and walk toward the room Dr. Morgan’s waiting in. I need to get in there before I can examine the warm, sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the hangover and everything to do with the man behind me.

Dr. Morgan doesn’t stand when we enter. She just looks up from her laptop, adjusts her glasses, and gestures to the two empty chairs across from her with the impatience of someone who’s been kept waiting.

The consultation room is exactly what you’d expect: beige walls and a small round table that forces everyone to sit too close. Domenico pulls out a chair for me, and I sink into it, my legs grateful for the rest.

He takes the seat beside me, close enough that our arms touch, and under the table, his hand finds mine. I squeeze his fingers once in a silent thanks for being here.

Dr. Morgan places both hands flat on the table. Her nails are short, unpainted. Practical. “I want your mother transferred to Langford Neurological Institute,” she says, not bothering to waste time on pleasantries like saying hello. “Today, if possible. I’ve already arranged a bed.”

I blink. “Langford?” I repeat, not sure if I heard her correctly.

“Yes, Langford,” she confirms. “I work directly with their long-term severe brain injury unit. Which would be perfect, as I’d like to have your mom under my personal supervision for approximately two weeks while I conduct a more extensive evaluation.”

My brain’s still stuck on the Langford of it all. There’s no way I can afford that place. Langford is Boston’s super-exclusive and prestigious hospital for the rich and the famous. It’s not for everyday people. And even if you can afford it, you need recommendations and connections.

Domenico shifts closer until his lips graze the shell of my ear. “If you’re worried about the money—”

“Of course I’m worried about the money,” I whisper, interrupting him.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, low enough for my ears only. Then he straightens and looks at Dr. Morgan. “Sounds good.”

I swallow thickly, knowing I should count my blessings for this boon. But still, I can’t help asking, “Why?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “What’s wrong with her care here?”

Something shifts in Dr. Morgan’s expression. Not warmth—she doesn’t seem capable of that—but a flicker of something that might be respect.

“There are parts of your mother’s history, treatment, and current condition that don’t fit together cleanly.” She reaches for a folder and opens it. “After reviewing her records and speaking with the nursing staff, I don’t trust this hospital.”

The folder contains papers. Lots of them. Authorization forms, treatment plans, and medication schedules. I notice each one says NovaGen Pharmaceuticals at the top. But when Dr. Morgan slides several across the table toward me, I focus on the signatures at the bottom of each page.

I know that handwriting. Slanted and messy, the H in Harry looped too wide, the D in Adams dragging into the next line like he was in a hurry or drunk, or both. My dad’s signature.

My throat tightens. “These are my dad’s.”

“Yes.” Dr. Morgan watches my face with the focus of someone reading a particularly dense medical chart. “He’s been authorizing your mother’s care since the accident.”

“I know that.” I swallow. “What am I supposed to be seeing here?”

She taps one of the forms with her index finger. A medication authorization. Dates, dosages, names I can’t pronounce. “Certain medications your mother received raise questions. The timing also concerns me.” She pauses, adjusts her glasses. “There appears to have been a change after Mr. DeLuca assumed control of your mom’s medical expenses.”

The room goes very, very, very quiet.

I turn to Domenico. My neck moves slowly, as if I’m underwater.

He took control of my mom’s care and didn’t tell me. Was this part of the deal Dad made when he sold me? No, it can’t have been. Or maybe… is this why he wanted me to seal the deal as fast as possible?

Pain lances through my heart, hitting me so fast it steals my breath. Though it starts in my chest, it quickly radiates outward, hot and sharp. The hangover, the lack of sleep, the fear for Mom—all of it crashes into this betrayal like a wave hitting a breakwall.

Questions pile up in my mind, like, why didn’t Domenico tell me? When did this happen? Now isn’t the time, though. I keep telling myself that while biting the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.

Because this isn’t the time or the place to ask said questions. Not when Dr. Morgan is watching us with the patience of a scientist observing lab rats.

Domenico’s hand tightens around mine. He feels me stiffen, feels the way my fingers go rigid in his grip, and his thumb strokes once across my knuckles. A silent apology, perhaps. Or just an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay on Dr. Morgan, and his voice when he speaks is level, controlled. “What kind of questions?”

Is he really asking me that now? Oh, wait. She mentioned there were questions, so he must be asking her.

Dr. Morgan looks between us. She’s not stupid. She sees the current running under the table, the way my shoulders have gone tight, the way Domenico’s jaw works. But she’s also not interested in our marital drama.

“I don’t speculate beyond what I can prove,” she states. “But the pattern of medication suggests that the previous regimen may not have been optimized for your mom’s condition.” She pauses. “Or worse, it may have been actively detrimental.”

The words land like stones.

Actively detrimental.

But what does that even mean? No, I can’t think about that. Not yet.

Needing to get back to discussing Mom, I ask the first question that pops into my head. “What about visiting?” My voice sounds thin, stretched. “At Langford, I mean. Will I be able to see her?”

Dr. Morgan nods once. “You’ll receive a visiting schedule. It won’t be daily, and visits won’t last for hours. I need consistency while I’m assessing her. Disruptions make accurate evaluation difficult.”

I hate it. Every cell in my body hates it. The thought of leaving Mom with strangers, of not being able to sit by her bed and brush her hair and tell her about my day—it makes me want to scream.

But Dr. Morgan is sitting across from me with her stack of folders and her unblinking certainty, and for the first time since the accident, someone is offering more than stable and comfortable.

Someone is offering answers.

“Okay.” I swallow thickly. “Transfer her.”

Dr. Morgan shoots me an apologetic glance. “I’m afraid I need Mr. DeLuca to sign off on it.”

“What?” I half-shriek, anger pulsing through me at her words. “Why in the hell does he need to sign off on my mom’s anything?”

“Actually,” Domenico says, clearing his throat. “If you study the paperwork properly, Dr. Morgan, you’ll see that Kira DeLuca has been in charge of Paige ever since her dad was found… unfit.”

I can barely… wait, what was that? I’m in charge of Mom?

Deciding to ignore Domenico for now, I look at Dr. Morgan, who tries to hide a self-satisfied smile. But she doesn’t manage to wipe it away before I see it.

“I know,” she says simply. “I wasn’t sure if your wife did, though. So I figured she should be aware.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I ask what I need to sign or do to get Mom moved. I need to stay on task here before some new bomb in the form of life-altering revelations drops. Dr. Morgan shows me the forms I need to sign on her laptop, and I quickly fill everything out.

She gathers the papers she had shown me earlier with efficient movements. “That’s everything,” she says, even offering a tight smile. “Langford will send transport this afternoon.” She stands abruptly. “I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. DeLuca. Mr. DeLuca.”

“Wait,” I call out just as she reaches the door. “I need to say goodbye before you transfer her.”

“Very well,” she agrees.

Mom’s room is exactly how I left it yesterday—or rather, earlier today—except someone’s changed the sheets.

I pull the chair closer to the bed. The metal legs scrape against the floor, and the sound is too loud in the quiet room. Mom doesn’t flinch. Her chest rises and falls in that even rhythm that’s become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

Her hand lies palm-up on the blanket. I take it in both of mine, and her skin is cool, papery thin over the bones. The pulse in her wrist is steady, and I press my thumb against it, counting.

One. Two. Three.

“Hey, Mom.” My voice comes out softly, the way it always does when I talk to her. Like I’m telling a secret. “I have some news.”

Despite my headache, the monitor’s beeping feels like a reassuring constant today.

“You’re going somewhere new today.” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “A place called Langford. It’s a neurological institute, and it’s really good, from what I hear.” I pause, swallow. “There’s a doctor there. Dr. Morgan. She’s… intense. You’d like her, I think. She doesn’t waste time being nice, which is honestly refreshing.”

I continue telling Mom about the move and about Dr. Morgan. A breath catches in my chest when I get to the part about me not being able to visit as much anymore.

“Dr. Morgan says it’s for the best, Mom, and I, well, I trust her.” I take a shuddering breath.

Even though I’m dying to talk to her about the authorization forms Dad signed, I don’t mention it. I mean, I don’t even understand enough to repeat it. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell her just in case it somehow causes her stress or worry.

That is… if she can even hear me.

Dammit, at that thought, tears fall from my eyes in a steady stream. I lick my lips when the salty drops reach my mouth.

“I’ll come see you whenever they let me.”

Leaning forward, I press my forehead to the back of her hand. Her skin smells like hospital soap and something underneath that’s still her, something the antiseptic hasn’t erased.

“I love you,” I murmur against her knuckles. “I’ll see you soon.”

Behind me, near the door, Domenico stands with his arms crossed. I heard him come in while I was talking to Mom, but I refused to acknowledge his intrusion.

It hurts when I stand up. My legs are stiff from sitting too long, and the hangover has settled into a dull, persistent ache behind my eyes. I take one last look at Mom—her face peaceful, her breathing even, the thin line between her eyebrows.

She looks like she’s concentrating on something just out of reach. Maybe she is. Maybe somewhere in the dark, she’s fighting her way back to me. God, let it happen.

I take one step toward the door. Then another. Each one feels like walking away from something—someone—I’m not ready to leave.

Domenico moves when I reach him. Not crowding me, just shifting to make room, and his hand finds the small of my back. The touch is light, guiding, and I don’t pull away. His palm is warm through my clothes, and for a second, I let myself lean into it.

But only for a second, because once we’re out of here, my husband has a lot of explaining to do.