Chapter 54

Chapter 54
Sophia's POV
When Vito called me over, David shot me that worried look again. I patted his hand reassuringly and pushed Vito's wheelchair away from the small gathering.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Romano estate's manicured gardens, but the warmth did nothing to ease the tension radiating from the man beside me. Vito's jaw was set in that familiar hard line that meant he was either furious or fighting some internal battle.
"You needed to speak with me?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Your marital status," he said without preamble, his dark eyes fixed straight ahead. "I felt it needed to be... clarified."
Ah, there it was. The possessive streak that never failed to surface whenever David was around. I should have expected this conversation.
"You're absolutely right," I replied, matching his formal tone. "I am married. Quite clearly married." I paused deliberately before adding, "And what about you and Maria?"
Vito's hands stilled on the wheelchair's armrests. "What about Maria?"
"Don't play coy with me, Vito. The woman practically glows whenever you're in the same room. And you..." I studied his profile, noting the slight softening around his eyes whenever Maria's name was mentioned. "You look at her like she's made of spun glass and you're terrified she might break."
"Maria is recovering from a traumatic experience. Of course I'm concerned about her wellbeing."
"Concerned." I let out a humorless laugh. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Vito turned his wheelchair to face me, and even behind his ever-present dark glasses, I could feel the intensity of his gaze. "Are you jealous, bella?"
The endearment, spoken in that low, deliberately intimate tone, sent an unwanted shiver down my spine. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it affected me.
"Jealous?" I crossed my arms. "Why would I be jealous of a woman who clearly has a prior claim on my husband's affections? After all, you made it quite clear at the hospital that your obligations to her take precedence over—"
"Enough." His voice cut through my sarcasm like a blade. "You know nothing about my obligations to Maria."
"Then enlighten me," I challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you married one woman while pining for another. How very modern of you."
Vito's hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, I thought he might actually stand up from that wheelchair in his anger. Instead, he took a slow, controlled breath.
"Maria saved my life when I was eight years old," he said quietly. "She protected me when she was just a child herself, and she paid a price for it that no one should ever have to pay. My 'obligation' to her is honor, nothing more and nothing less."
The raw honesty in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn't the calculated, controlled Vito I'd grown accustomed to. This was a man wrestling with genuine guilt and responsibility.
"I see," I said softly. "And what does that make me? A convenient wife to fulfill family expectations while you play the noble protector?"
Before he could respond, Vito suddenly clutched his chest.
"Vito?" I was immediately on alert, my medical training kicking in despite our argument. "What's wrong?"
He doubled over in the wheelchair, one hand pressed against his chest, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow.
"Pain... in my chest," he gasped. "Can't... breathe properly."
Every instinct I'd developed during my years at Columbia Medical kicked into overdrive. I dropped to my knees beside his wheelchair, my hands automatically moving to check his pulse.
"How long have you been having chest pain?" I asked, my voice taking on the crisp, professional tone I'd learned during my medical rotations.
"Just... just started," he managed between labored breaths.
His pulse was elevated but regular. I moved my hands to his chest, feeling for any obvious irregularities while mentally running through differential diagnoses.
"Any radiation of the pain? Down your arm, into your jaw?"
"No... just... crushing feeling in chest."
Myocardial infarction was possible, but at his age and apparent fitness level... I pressed my fingers against his carotid artery, counting beats while watching the second hand on my watch.
"Vito, I need you to try to slow your breathing. In through your nose, hold for three seconds, out through your mouth." I demonstrated the breathing pattern. "Can you do that for me?"
He followed my instructions, though I could see the effort it took.
"Any family history of heart disease?" I continued my assessment, my hands now checking for peripheral edema around his ankles.
"Some... why are you..."
"History of panic attacks? Anxiety disorders?"
"I don't have panic attacks," he said through gritted teeth, though his breathing was beginning to slow as he followed my breathing guidance.
I was checking his capillary refill when I noticed something that made me pause. The way he was sitting, the subtle shift in how he held his shoulders...
He moved his legs.
It was just a small adjustment, probably unconscious, but I'd been around enough wheelchair-bound patients during my rotations to recognize the movement patterns. A truly paralyzed person wouldn't have made that particular adjustment.
I filed that observation away for later and continued my assessment.
"The pain is starting to ease," Vito said, his voice stronger now.
"Good. Your pulse is returning to normal, and your color is improving." I sat back on my heels, studying him with professional detachment. "Based on your symptoms and the rapid resolution, I'd say you experienced either a panic attack or possibly acid reflux triggered by stress."
"I told you, I don't—"
"Have panic attacks," I finished. "Right. Well, stress-induced chest pain can mimic cardiac symptoms. The body doesn't distinguish between physical and emotional stressors when it comes to fight-or-flight responses."
Vito stared at me, his expression unreadable behind those dark glasses.
"You seem to know quite a bit about medical conditions," he said slowly.
I realized, too late, that I'd revealed far more medical knowledge than Isabella Cohen, art student, should possess. My heart began to race as I scrambled for a plausible explanation.
"I... I took some pre-med courses in college. Before I switched to art." The lie came easily, but I could feel heat rising in my cheeks.
"Pre-med courses," he repeated, his tone carefully neutral.
"Yes. I thought I wanted to be a doctor for a while. But I realized it wasn't for me." I stood up, brushing imaginary dust from my knees. "You should probably see your actual physician, just to be safe."
Vito continued to study me with that unnerving intensity that made me feel like he could see straight through all my carefully constructed lies.
"I didn't know," he said quietly, "that my wife was so... proficient in medical matters."
My hands shook as I pushed the wheelchair.