Chapter 2 - The Heartbeat in the Dark
The examination room was small, lit only by the soft, blue glow of the ultrasound machine in the corner. Dr. Rebecca Sloan, a woman in her late fifties with kind eyes and a calm, maternal presence, was already waiting for us. She had been my doctor for the last four months, a steady anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
When she saw Adrian walk in behind me, her eyes widened slightly, her gaze traveling from his expensive coat to the two bodyguards who remained posted in the hallway outside the open door.
"Clara," Dr. Sloan said, her voice cautious. "Is everything alright?"
"This is Adrian," I said, my voice tight as I climbed onto the high examination table with the help of the step stool. "He’s... the father."
Dr. Sloan looked at Adrian for a long moment, evaluating the sharp, intense way he stood near the corner of the room, his eyes never leaving my face. She was a doctor in Chicago; she knew who the Morettis were. Everyone did. But she simply nodded, her professional mask sliding back into place as she pulled a fresh sheet of paper over the examination table.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, her tone polite but firm. "If you’re going to stay, please take a seat in the corner. We need to keep the workspace clear."
Adrian looked at the small plastic chair she was pointing to, then back at me. For a second, I thought he was going to refuse, to demand a larger room or a specialist from Northwestern, but instead, he silently walked over and sat down, his long legs cramped in the tight space, his hands resting on his knees.
"Alright, Clara," Dr. Sloan said, her fingers moving over the keyboard of the ultrasound machine. "Let's check on our little girl. Go ahead and lay back and lift your dress to just below your ribs."
I leaned back against the paper roll, the crinkling sound loud in the quiet room. I pulled the blue fabric of my dress up, exposing the pale, tight skin of my stomach. It was covered in light stretch marks—tiny silver lines that looked like pathways on a map. I felt a sudden, sharp spike of embarrassment as I realized Adrian was watching me, his eyes locked onto the marks with an intensity that made my skin tingle.
"Here comes the cold gel," Dr. Sloan warned.
She squeezed a thick, blue stream of gel onto my stomach. I flinched slightly at the cold, and Adrian’s hand instantly moved from his knee, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out and wipe it away himself.
Dr. Sloan took the transducer probe and pressed it against my skin, moving it in slow, circular motions.
At first, there was only the loud, rhythmic static of the machine—a white noise that filled the room like the sound of a distant ocean. Then, Dr. Sloan clicked a button, and the static resolved into a deep, hollow, double-time rhythm.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
It was the fastest, most beautiful sound in the world.
I looked at Adrian.
He had stood up from his small plastic chair without even realizing it. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides, his chest heaving as his eyes darted from my stomach to the black-and-white monitor in the corner.
"Is that...?" he whispered, his voice cracking like a boy’s.
"That’s her heart, Adrian," I said, my eyes welling with tears as I watched his face. "One hundred and forty-five beats per minute. She’s strong."
"She sounds like a train," he breathed, stepping closer to the machine, his eyes locked onto the flickering gray image on the screen.
Dr. Sloan smiled softly, her professional reserve melting slightly at the sight of the feared mafia boss looking like he had just seen a miracle. "She is strong, Mr. Moretti. Let's get some measurements."
She moved the probe across my stomach, and the image on the screen shifted, revealing the outline of a tiny, rounded skull, a delicate spine that looked like a string of pearls, and a tiny, perfect fist pressed against a soft cheek.
"That’s her face," Dr. Sloan said, pointing a finger at the screen. "See right here? This is her nose, and there’s her upper lip. She’s got her mother’s chin."
Adrian leaned closer, his hand coming to rest on the edge of the examination table, his fingers just inches from mine. "She's beautiful," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he had never allowed himself to show in public. "She’s so small, Clara. How is she supposed to survive in this world?"
"She weighs approximately five pounds, six ounces," Dr. Sloan said, her fingers typing commands into the machine to measure the femur length. "That’s a very healthy weight for thirty-four weeks. She’s actually measuring a little bit ahead of schedule."
I let out a long, slow breath, my hand relaxing on my stomach. For the last six months, every appointment had been a source of intense anxiety. I had been alone in these dark rooms, holding my own hand, wondering if the stress of my new life was hurting her. But hearing that she was healthy, and seeing Adrian’s face look so completely, utterly undone by her presence, made me feel like I could finally stop running.
"Can you see her hands?" Adrian asked, his finger rising to touch the glass of the monitor where the tiny hand was visible.
"Right here," Dr. Sloan said, zooming in on the image. "Ten perfect fingers. She’s actually sucking her thumb right now."
Adrian let out a short, wet laugh, his head dropping for a second as he wiped his face with his sleeve. "She’s stubborn. Just like her mother."
"She’s stubborn like both of us, Adrian," I said, my hand sliding over the paper sheet to cover his fingers.
He didn't pull away. He gripped my hand with a desperate, crushing intensity, his knuckles warm and rough against mine. For a moment, we were back in our old bedroom, before the threat of the Russian syndicate, before the lawyers, before the cold silence of our divorce.
But then, the atmosphere in the room changed.
Dr. Sloan’s fingers stopped moving over the keyboard. Her smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, concentrated frown as she looked at the lower half of the screen. She moved the transducer probe further down my abdomen, pressing harder against my pelvis.
"Clara," she said, her voice dropping to a low, serious register. "Have you had any bleeding today?"
"No," I said, my heart instantly rising into my throat. "Just some cramping. I thought they were Braxton Hicks."
"How often have you been feeling them?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the screen.
"Every twenty minutes or so," I said, my fingers tightening in Adrian’s grip. "Dr. Sloan, what is it? Is something wrong with her?"
Adrian’s grip on my hand went cold. I could feel the sudden, terrifying shift in his posture, his body going rigid as he leaned over the machine, his eyes locked on Dr. Sloan's face.
"What do you see, Doctor?" Adrian demanded, his voice returning to that low, dangerous tone that made men in Chicago tremble.
Dr. Sloan didn't answer him. She pressed the probe even harder against my skin, her eyes darting across the screen where the gray lines of my cervix were visible. She clicked her tongue, her expression turning from concern to outright alarm.
"Dr. Sloan!" I cried, my voice rising in panic as a sharp, tight contraction rippled across my abdomen, making me gasp.
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"Clara, those aren't Braxton Hicks," Dr. Sloan said, her fingers moving rapidly over the controls. "Your cervix is completely effaced, and you're already dilated to four centimeters. The baby’s head is pressing directly against the cervix, and your amniotic fluid levels are dangerously low. She’s in distress."
Before I could even process the words, Dr. Sloan reached over the keyboard and slammed her palm down on the red emergency call button on the wall.
