Chapter 94 CHAPTER 094

Chapter 94 CHAPTER 094
The drive home was long, and Martina talked almost the entire way.

"You need iron," she said, turning in her seat to face Anna. "So I am going to make you spinach and ricotta tortellini. Spinach is good for you, and you need to start eating more foods rich in iron. Do you know how to make tortellini from scratch? It is not hard. It just takes patience."

"Oh… Okay," Anna murmured.

"And eggs," Martina continued. "You should be eating more eggs. They're good for you, and they're full of protein. I can make you a frittata with potatoes and onions. Maybe a little pancetta for flavor, but not too much. We don’t want anything overly salty."

"Okay."

"You have to eat properly now," Martina said. "Not just for yourself, but for the baby too. The baby needs nutrients, vitamins, all of it. And if the baby needs it, then so do you. That’s why I am going to make sure you eat well, whether you want to or not."

Anna nodded firmly.

She let Martina's voice wash over her, a steady stream of words that required no protest, or debate.

Leaning her head against the window, she watched the countryside roll past—fields of grapevines, rows of cypress trees, farmhouses with faded shutters and tile roofs.

She let out a weary sigh.

She was exhausted, the kind that went beyond sleep, settling deep in her bones and weighing her down.

"When we get home, we'll make a lasagna," Martina continued, counting on her fingers. "With spinach and ricotta and béchamel. It has calcium, and you need calcium right now. The baby needs it too. Growing bones take a lot out of a mother."

Anna nodded.

"That’s the thing about babies. Even before they are born, they start taking everything from you. Your energy, your sleep, half the food on your plate." Martina laughed softly. "My mother used to say, 'The day you become a mother, your life stops belonging entirely to you.'" Her smile turned wistful. "And she was right."

Anna smiled.

It was a small smile, barely a curve of her lips, but it was real.

She liked Martina.

She liked how effortlessly the woman filled silence, how she never seemed to need permission to speak, how her hands moved when she talked, slicing through the air as if she could shape the world with her fingers.

Martina was warm in a way that Vincenzo wasn't.

Looking at her, Anna sometimes wondered how two people raised in the same family could have turned out so different.

The car turned onto the long driveway leading to the mansion, and the gates swung open as it approached.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they drove between rows of trees.

Long shadows stretched across the ground while the late-afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, scattering shafts of gold across the drive.

The mansion rose ahead of them, all old stone and dark windows.

At once, Anna felt the familiar weight settle on her chest— the feeling of returning to a place where she was both seen and unseen.

The car rolled to a stop near the front entrance, and the driver switched off the engine.

Anna gathered the paper bag from the pharmacy along with the groceries they had picked up at the open-air market on the way back from the hospital, her arms filling with rustling paper and crinkling plastic.

Using her shoulder, she pushed the car door open and stepped out.

The air was cool against her skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers.

She stood on the gravel for a moment, then turned toward the house.

Martina came around the other side of the car with grocery bags hooked over both arms, already talking again—something about the best way to roast tomatoes, about basil and oregano, and how fresh garlic was non-negotiable.

Anna nodded along, only half-listening as they crossed the gravel toward the front door.

Then Martina stopped.

Anna halted beside her and followed her gaze.

Papa stood near the garden by the driveway, a walking stick resting in one hand. His figure looked small against the sweep of the lawn.

One of his hands was clasped behind his back. He wore a cardigan over his shirt, the buttons mismatched so that one side hung slightly lower than the other.

His white hair caught the afternoon sunlight, forming a soft halo around his head.

He seemed absorbed in whatever was growing before him—a rose bush, perhaps, or a cluster of lavender.

His head was tilted slightly to one side, as though he were listening to something only he could hear.

"Papa," Martina called, warmth flooding her voice.

At the sound of her voice, he turned.

A smile spread across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes.

"Ciao, mia cara, (Hey, my dear,)" he said.

His voice was rough and a little breathless, but warm.

Genuinely warm.

Martina headed toward him, the grocery bags swinging gently from her arms.

Anna followed a few steps behind.

"Papa, non dovresti essere fuori con questo freddo e non dovresti stressarti, sai che il dottore ti ha detto di riposare per un po’ prima di ricominciare a lavorare da sola, (Papa, you shouldn't be outside in this cold and you shouldn't stress yourself, you know the doctor told you to rest for a while before you start working on your own again)," Martina said, her tone gently scolding.

Papa laughed.

The sound was thin and reedy, a fragile thread of amusement that seemed to cost him more effort than it should.

"Oh, caro, sto be— (Oh, dear, I am fi—)"

The words died in his throat.

His body jerked with a violent spasm, and his hand flew to his chest, fingers bunching in the fabric of his cardigan.

A cough tore out of him—raw, wet, and harsh.

Then another.

And another.

His walking stick slipped from his hand as he doubled over, one hand braced against his knee as the coughing fit took hold.

The coughs came in rapid succession, each one stronger than the last, rattling through his chest with a frightening force.

The sound seemed to scrape its way out of him, leaving him breathless between each desperate gasp for air.

"Papa?" Martina's voice rose, sharp with fear. She dropped the grocery bags, the contents spilling across the gravel, and she ran toward him. "Papa!"

Anna dropped her own bags and ran too, her feet slipping on the loose stones, her heart slamming against her ribs.

The guards who had been standing near the entrance moved at the same time, their bodies surging forward in a coordinated rush.

Martina clutched her father’s shoulders, her heart racing. "Papa, are you okay?"

His coughs began to slow. His body straightened, just slightly, and his hand fell away from his chest.

His eyes, watery and red-rimmed, found Martina’s face.

His lips parted as if he wanted to speak—to reassure her, to tell her he was fine, that everything was fine, that she shouldn’t worry.

But instead, his eyes closed.

His knees buckled, and he slipped from Martina’s grasp, crumpling to the ground.

Martina screamed.

The sound tore through the air, high and raw. "Papa! Papa, no! Papa!"

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands flying to his face, his chest, his shoulders. She shook him desperately, clutching at the fabric of his cardigan. "Papa, wake up. Papa, please. Papa!"

Anna stood frozen for a moment, her hands pressed to her mouth, her breath caught in her throat.

The guards rushed past her.

One dropped to his knees beside Papa while the other pulled out his phone, speaking into it in a low, urgent voice.

The guard who had knelt down took Papa's wrist between his fingers, his thumb pressing against the pulse point.

He held it there for a long moment, his face blank, his eyes fixed on some middle distance.

Releasing Papa's wrist, he brought his hand to Papa's mouth, his fingers hovering beneath Papa's nostrils, waiting, feeling.

The seconds stretched.

Wind moved through the garden, rustling the rose bushes and carrying the scent of lavender across the driveway.

Martina's sobs filled the air, low and broken, punctuated by sharp gasps for breath.

The guard pulled his hand back from Papa's face.

He looked up at the other guard, and something passed between them, a silent exchange that Anna couldn’t read.

Then he turned to Martina.

His expression softened in a way Anna had never seen before, and before he even spoke, she already knew what he was going to say.

"He’s not breathing."