chapter 40 Set off

chapter 40 Set off
Carla's POV

Ricardo's eyes fluttered open as I leaned over his hospital bed, my hand gently covering his. The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the gold flecks in his green irises, making them seem almost luminous against his pale skin.

"Carla," he whispered. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? The baby..."

"I'm fine," I assured him, forcing a smile. "We're both fine. I just need to take a short trip for work. Some art authentication business that requires my expertise."

It was a carefully constructed lie that Beatrice and I had rehearsed. My supposed pregnancy had forced me to take leave from the Metropolitan Museum, but Alessandro's contacts had arranged for a private art collector in Sicily to request my services. A perfectly reasonable explanation for why I would be away for a week.

"Sicily? That seems far to travel when you're expecting..."

"It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to examine some Renaissance pieces that have never been publicly catalogued. The collector is paying very well, and we could use the money with all the medical expenses..."

Ricardo squeezed my hand weakly. "I wish I could provide for you properly. For our family."

The guilt hit me like a physical blow. Here he was, worried about providing for a child that didn't exist, while I was about to fly to Sicily with his brother under circumstances I couldn't even fully explain to myself.

"You don't need to worry about anything except getting better," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, Ricardo. I'll be back before you know it."

A soft knock on the door interrupted us. Beatrice entered carrying a small suitcase, her expression carefully composed but her eyes red-rimmed from recent tears.

"Cara mia," she said, setting the luggage down. "I've packed everything you might need. Some of the warmer clothes from your closet, comfortable shoes, your prenatal vitamins..."

She moved to Ricardo's bedside. "I've spoken with Dr. Martinez. He assured me that Ricardo will have round-the-clock monitoring while you're away. If anything changes, anything at all, they'll call immediately."

Beatrice studied my face carefully. "This collector, he's reputable? You're certain it's safe to travel alone?"

"The art world is small but well-connected. Everything has been verified through proper channels." Another lie.

An hour later, I stood in the private aviation terminal at Teterboro Airport, watching Alessandro's jet being prepared for departure. The sleek aircraft was smaller than I'd expected but clearly expensive, with the Bonano family crest discretely etched near the cockpit.

Alessandro stood near the boarding stairs, speaking in rapid Italian with Marco. His expression was darker than I'd seen it, his jaw clenched with some internal tension. When he noticed me approaching, he ended his conversation abruptly.

"Ready?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question.

The interior of the jet was appointed with cream leather seats and polished wood accents. I'd never flown private before, and under different circumstances, I might have been excited by the luxury. Instead, I felt hollow and disconnected, my mind still back in that hospital room with Ricardo.

As we taxied for takeoff, a flight attendant offered me a glass of red wine from what was clearly an expensive vintage. I accepted it gratefully, hoping the alcohol might ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

"Not drinking?" I asked Alessandro, who had declined the attendant's offer.

"I prefer to stay alert during business travel," he replied without looking up from the documents spread across his table.

The wine was smooth and warming, but it did nothing to quiet my racing thoughts. I found myself calculating timing and probabilities, running through medical statistics I'd memorized over sleepless nights.

Natural conception had success rates of around twenty percent per cycle for healthy couples.

Artificial insemination was more invasive but offered precise timing. However, it would require medical facilities, documented procedures, paper trails that could potentially be discovered.

The guilt was eating me alive. Every lie I told Ricardo, every moment I spent in Alessandro's presence instead of at my husband's bedside, felt like another betrayal of my marriage vows.

But what choice did I have? If I couldn't conceive soon, if the pregnancy lie was exposed, Ricardo would lose all hope.

I pulled out my phone and began researching Alessandro's condition again, scrolling through medical journals and case studies. Psychological erectile dysfunction often had better treatment outcomes than physical trauma. If his issues were rooted in emotional rather than physiological damage, recovery was possible.

One study caught my attention particularly. It suggested that witnessing a partner with another man could sometimes trigger a competitive response that overcame psychological barriers. The theory was controversial, but several case studies showed improvement in men who had previously been completely unresponsive.

The thought made my cheeks burn, but I forced myself to consider it clinically. If Alessandro's dysfunction was psychological, if the right stimulus could restore his normal function, then natural conception might still be possible.

I needed to understand what had caused his condition in the first place.

Marco was seated several rows behind us, reviewing what looked like security briefings. When the attendant moved to the galley, I unbuckled my seatbelt and walked back to him.

"Marco," I said quietly, settling into the seat across from him. "May I ask you something?"

He looked up from his papers with polite attention. "Of course, Mrs. Bonano."

"Alessandro's... condition. Has he ever spoken to you about when it started? What caused it?"

Marco's expression immediately shuttered, his eyes becoming carefully neutral. "I'm afraid that's not something I can discuss."

"Please. I'm not asking out of idle curiosity. If there's any possibility of treatment, any chance that the right approach could help him recover..."

"Mrs. Bonano," Marco interrupted. "Some subjects are not open for discussion. Not with me, not with anyone. I suggest you focus on the business at hand in Sicily."

He returned to his papers, making it clear that the conversation was over. But I'd seen something flicker in his eyes before he'd closed down. Knowledge, and perhaps sympathy, but also an absolute unwillingness to betray his employer's most private vulnerabilities.

The jet began its descent over the Mediterranean, and through the small window, I caught my first glimpse of Sicily's rugged coastline. Whatever answers I needed about Alessandro would have to come from other sources.