Chapter 12 - The Hospital Room
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When Clara opened her eyes, she wasn't in the tiny apartment in Chelsea.
She was lying in a wide, incredibly soft bed. The room smelled of antiseptic and expensive flowers. Sunlight poured through a large window, illuminating the sterile white walls of a private hospital suite.
She tried to sit up, but a dull ache in her chest stopped her.
"Do not move."
The quiet voice came from the corner of the room.
Raphael Duca was sitting in a leather recliner, reading a newspaper. He wore a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, looking entirely out of place in a hospital setting.
"Mr. Duca?" Clara rasped, her throat dry.
Raphael set the paper down and walked over to the bed. He poured a glass of water from a plastic pitcher and held the straw to her lips.
"You collapsed in the car," Raphael explained, his dark eyes studying her pale face. "Your heart gave out. The doctors said you suffered a severe arrhythmic episode. They also said you have been living with a congenital defect for years."
Clara swallowed the water, panic instantly seizing her. "Noel. Where is Noel?"
"Noel is perfectly safe," Raphael assured her quickly. "Mrs. Dora went to Chelsea personally. Noel is currently sitting in the kitchen of the estate, eating an alarming amount of butter cookies."
Clara let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for five years.
"The surgery was successful," Raphael continued casually, as if discussing the weather.
"Surgery?" Clara gasped, looking down at her hospital gown. "I can't afford surgery! The cost—"
"The cost is irrelevant," Raphael interrupted smoothly. "I bought the surgical wing. Your medical bills have been paid in full. You have a new valve, Clara. Your heart is fixed."
Clara stared at the mafia boss. The man who had walked away from his own wedding was sitting by her bedside, having casually bought a hospital wing to save the life of his maid.
"Why are you doing this?" Clara whispered, tears filling her eyes.
Raphael looked down at his hands. For a moment, he looked exactly like the nineteen-year-old boy kneeling in the rain beside his dying father.
"My mother told me before she died," Raphael said softly, "that I could buy fear, and I could buy loyalty. But I could never buy someone who could look at me without seeing a monster."
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He looked up, meeting Clara’s eyes.
"You stood up in a room full of killers and screamed to protect me," Raphael whispered. "You saved me, Clara. Fixing your heart was the easiest thing I have ever done."
