Chapter 87

Chapter 87
The clinic is an airless geometry of glass, steel, and rare silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows catch the pale city morning, giving the illusion of altitude even from the fourth floor. Everything—chairs, counters, the cool blue of the exam table paper—is immaculate to the point of threat. Bell sits in a hospital gown that does nothing to protect her from the cold, her knees drawn together, hands flat against the paper as if trying to will the table not to shiver beneath her.

Dante stands to her left, so close he might as well be a second skin. His suit is uncharacteristically rumpled, shirt collar one button shy of perfection, and he grips her hand with the kind of desperation that would embarrass him in any other context. He doesn’t look at her—he stares instead at the dark monitor beside the bed, eyes as flat and black as the obsidian cufflinks on his wrist.

Luca paces. He’s dressed down for once—jeans, a designer hoodie that tries too hard to look generic, sneakers so white they hurt to look at. He can’t stay still: three steps to the window, tap the frame, turn, three steps to the magazine rack, flip a page, toss it down, repeat. The usual veneer of charm is missing. He keeps glancing at Bell’s stomach, then away, as if the curve of her belly is a gun trained on all of them.

Dr. Reeves enters with a practiced knock, wheeling in an ultrasound cart with one hand and a tablet in the other. She is the color of old porcelain—pale, precise, immune to intimidation. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Isabella. You’re here early,” she notes, and the implication—urgent, not routine—lands with a neat, surgical cut.

Bell manages a smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Dr. Reeves gives her a look that is not quite sympathy, not quite judgment, then pulls on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look.” She rubs a squeeze of gel onto Bell’s stomach, then plants the wand and begins the slow, deliberate hunt for life. The monitor flickers on, showing static, then a blur of gray, then—finally—the flicker of a heartbeat.

Bell can’t look away. The sound is softer than she expected, a whispering thump that seems to come from a distance. For a moment, all three of them watch the pulsing dot on the screen as if it’s the only light in a city gone dark.

Dante’s grip tightens. Luca stops pacing, sets both palms on the sill, and leans in, as if bracing himself against the possibility of hope.

Dr. Reeves clicks the trackball, freezing the image. She leans closer, her brow knitting. The silence lengthens.

Bell feels the cold seep through the paper and into her bones. “Is something wrong?” she asks, voice stripped of pretense.

Dr. Reeves is quiet for a moment longer, then points to the screen. “There’s some shadowing here,” she says, tracing the edge of the image. “It’s not abnormal, exactly. But it’s not what I want to see this early. I’d like to run another scan, maybe do some bloodwork.”

Dante’s jaw ticks. “Is it dangerous?”

The doctor weighs her words. “It can be. Or it can mean nothing. Sometimes the shadows resolve on their own.”

Luca’s voice is a half-laugh, half-question. “So… fifty-fifty?”

“Closer to eighty-twenty,” the doctor says. “But I don’t gamble, so let’s run the tests.” She wipes the gel from Bell’s skin, then types something rapid-fire into her tablet. “Wait here. I’ll be back with the phlebotomist.”

When the door closes behind her, the room is airless again.

Dante doesn’t let go of Bell’s hand. His thumb moves over her knuckles in slow, measured circles, as if trying to polish away the tension. He keeps his eyes on the door. “She’s being cautious,” he says. “That’s all.”

Bell nods, but her gaze is fixed on the screen, where the frozen image has already started to fade. She tries to replay the doctor’s words, searching for a loophole in the diagnosis, but all she finds is the thump of her own pulse in her ears.

Luca finally moves, takes the other side of the table. He leans in, palms flat beside her leg. “Hey. You’re tougher than this. The kid’s tougher than this.”

Bell wants to believe it. She wants to say something caustic, to make a joke about shadow babies or doctors who think in odds, but her mouth is dry.

Instead, she asks, “Did you ever think about this? Like, really think about it?”

Dante finally looks at her, and for a moment she sees the boy he used to be—raw, unguarded, terrified. “Every day,” he says, so softly she almost misses it.

Luca leans closer. “You think anyone else in this city could pull it off? You’re going to be the best fucking mother since the Virgin Mary.”

This time, Bell does laugh, the sound harsh but real. “That’s a low bar.”

He grins, relief flashing in his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

A nurse arrives, takes Bell’s blood with quick, painless efficiency, then vanishes as quickly as she came. The door shuts. The three of them are alone again.

Dante finally breaks, just a little. “Nothing will happen to you,” he says. “To either of you.” There’s a tremor in the words, as if he’s fighting off the memory of every other thing he’s failed to protect.

Luca doesn’t bother with words. He slides onto the table, wraps an arm around Bell’s shoulders, and rests his head against hers. His warmth is steady, grounding.

Bell closes her eyes, lets herself lean into them. For a second, she feels weightless—suspended between their bodies, the heat of their hands, the low electric hum of the room.

But only for a second.

When Dr. Reeves returns, the screen is cleared, the gel is wiped away, and Bell’s hands are folded in her lap, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles shine white. The doctor offers a bland smile, as if she hasn’t just upended their morning. “We’ll have results in a day or two. In the meantime, take it easy. No stress if you can help it.”

Luca barks a laugh. “You met us, right?”

Dr. Reeves’s smile tightens. “Just do your best.”

Dante helps Bell off the table, his hand never leaving hers. She stands, straightens her jacket, and takes a long, steady breath.

“Let’s go,” she says. “We’ve got work to do.”

They file out, Dante first, then Bell, then Luca. The hall smells of antiseptic and lemons, and the sound of the city is muffled by triple-glazed glass.

As they hit the parking garage, Bell’s hand goes to her stomach—just a quick, unconscious gesture, but the brothers catch it and fall in on either side, their bodies a wall against the rest of the world.

The cold follows them all the way home.