Chapter 5 - The Collapse
By late January, the two-year business contract felt like a distant, irrelevant piece of paper.
Gabriel had silently moved his clothes into Emma’s master suite. He had started sleeping beside her, initially keeping to his side of the massive king bed, but eventually, inevitably, waking up with his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, his face buried in her brown curls.
They hadn't spoken about the shift. They hadn't negotiated new terms. They had simply let the walls crumble, surrendering to the quiet, intense pull between them.
But as the winter dragged on, Emma began to feel... off.
It started with a lingering exhaustion that she couldn't shake. She would fall asleep in the car on the way back from the antique shop. Then came the sudden aversions to smells—the lemon polish at the shop made her nauseous, and the smell of Gabriel’s expensive dark roast coffee made her stomach churn.
She thought it was just the stress of the winter, the lingering anxiety of Gabriel’s ongoing war with the old capos.
Then came the morning of February 14th.
Gabriel was standing at the kitchen island, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, reviewing a legal contract for a new riverfront development. He was attempting to buy out a corrupt union leader, a move that would finally legitimize their shipping operations, but the negotiations were tense and dangerous.
Emma walked into the kitchen wearing her pale blue robe. She felt dizzy. The room seemed to tilt slightly to the left.
"Morning," Gabriel murmured, not looking up from his tablet, but his free hand automatically reached out, finding her hip and pulling her flush against his side. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "You slept late."
"I'm so tired," Emma whispered, resting her head against his shoulder.
"I'll have Silas bring the car around at noon. You don't need to go to the shop early." Gabriel finally looked up, his brow furrowing as he took in her pale face. "Emma? Are you alright?"
"I just... need water," she mumbled, stepping away from him toward the cabinets.
She reached for a heavy ceramic mug. As her fingers closed around the handle, a sudden, blinding wave of vertigo slammed into her. The kitchen lights flared violently white.
"Emma?" Gabriel’s voice sounded far away, as if he were shouting underwater.
The ceramic mug slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sharp crack.
Emma didn't hear the rest of the sound. Her knees buckled, the world went black, and she pitched forward into the void.
The first time Gabriel Mercer begged God for anything, his wife was unconscious on a kitchen floor.
Gabriel dropped to his knees so hard the impact cracked through the marble kitchen. Flour dusted the front of her pale blue robe. A thin line of blood marked her temple where she had struck the cabinet on the way down.
“Emma.”
No answer.
“Emma, open your eyes.”
Nothing.
His housekeeper appeared in the doorway and froze.
“Call the car,” Gabriel barked.
Then he changed his mind before she could move.
“No. Call St. Catherine’s. Tell them I’m coming.”
He lifted Emma into his arms.
For the first time in years, the most feared man in Knoxville was shaking.
He didn't wait for his security detail. He carried Emma to his armored Mercedes SUV, laid her gently across the back seat, and drove like a man possessed. He ran three red lights, his hand gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles pure white, his eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror to check on her motionless form.
When he slammed the brakes outside the emergency room entrance of St. Catherine’s, nurses were already rushing out with a gurney.
"My wife," Gabriel roared, carrying her out of the car. "She collapsed. She hit her head."
The medical team swarmed them, pulling Emma onto the gurney and rushing her through the swinging double doors. Gabriel tried to follow, but a stern-faced nurse placed a hand squarely in the center of his chest.
"Sir, you have to wait out here. We will find you as soon as the doctor has assessed her."
Gabriel stood in the sterile, brightly lit hallway, his chest heaving, his hands stained with the small amount of blood from Emma’s temple.
Ten minutes later, his security team arrived. Silas and three other massive men flooded the waiting room, securing the perimeter, their eyes scanning for threats. They assumed an attack. They assumed poison, or a sniper, or a hit.
Gabriel ignored them. He paced the floor like a caged predator, his mind racing through every terrible possibility. Had Vitiello gotten to her? Had someone slipped something into her food?
An hour passed. Then two.
Finally, the double doors swung open, and an older doctor with tired eyes and a clipboard walked into the waiting room.
"Mr. Mercer?"
Gabriel was in front of him before the man could take a second breath. "Where is she. What happened."
"Your wife is awake, Mr. Mercer," the doctor said calmly, unfazed by Gabriel’s intimidating presence. "We treated a minor laceration on her temple. The CT scan showed no internal bleeding or concussion."
"Then why did she collapse?" Gabriel demanded.
The doctor looked down at his clipboard, then back up at the mafia boss.
"Mr. Mercer, your wife suffered a sudden drop in blood pressure, exacerbated by mild dehydration and fatigue. It is a very common, though dramatic, symptom in the first trimester."
Gabriel froze. The air in his lungs vanished.
May you like
"First trimester?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, Mr. Mercer," the doctor smiled gently. "Congratulations. Your wife is nine weeks pregnant."
