Chapter 7 - A Thin, Furious Cry
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The cold steel of the operating table pressed against my back as nurses worked with blinding speed around me. Masks were strapped over faces, blue surgical drapes were pulled up, and an oxygen mask was pressed over my nose and mouth.
“Administering general anesthesia,” an anesthesiologist announced from behind my head. “Count backward from ten, Lena.”
“Please save her...” I sobbed into the plastic mask. “Please save my baby...”
“Ten... nine... eight...”
The room dissolved into a rushing vortex of sound and darkness.
When consciousness returned, it didn't come all at once. It leaked into my brain slowly, accompanied by the dull, throbbing ache in my left arm and a deep, burning fire across my lower abdomen.
The harsh chemical smell of a recovery room filled my lungs. I blinked heavily, trying to clear the thick fog coating my eyes.
“Lena?”
I turned my head slowly on the pillow. Vincent was sitting on a vinyl chair right beside the bed, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt collar unbuttoned. He looked completely exhausted, but his dark eyes were wide and alert.
My throat felt like desert sand. “The... the baby?”
Vincent stood up immediately, placing his warm palm against the side of my face.
“She’s alive, Lena,” he whispered softly. “She’s alive.”
A heavy gasp escaped my lips, and I began to cry quietly, relief washing through my body so intensely that I shook. “Is she okay? Can she breathe?”
“She’s small—four pounds, eight ounces,” Vincent explained, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “She’s in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit on a ventilator to help her lungs expand, but the doctors say her vital signs are stabilizing.”
“Did you see her?” I asked, clutching his sleeve.
Vincent smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his intimidating face entirely. “I stood outside her incubator for two hours. She has your dark hair, Lena. And when I touched her little hand through the glove port... she grabbed my finger and didn't let go.”
Tears blurred my vision again. “What did they list her as on the chart?”
“Baby Girl Hayes,” Vincent replied, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of my married surname.
I swallowed hard, looking toward the small window overlooking the city skyline.
“No,” I said firmly, my voice gaining strength. “Her name isn't Hayes. Her name is Sofia.”
Vincent went completely still. His breath hitched in his throat.
May you like
“Sofia Rose,” I added, looking back at him. “After my mother.”
The feared boss of the Moretti family covered his face with both hands and wept silently by my bedside.
