Chapter 7 - SHADOWS ON THE ULTRASOUND
The sun broke over the Atlantic at 6:00 AM.
The light filtered through the reinforced blinds of the master suite, painting gold stripes across the dark hardwood floor.
Delphine lay on the chaise lounge by the window.
She had refused to sleep in the king bed.
Sloan hadn't forced her.
Instead, he had dragged a heavy leather armchair next to the chaise and sat there all night, watching the door with a gun resting across his lap.
He had showered.
His dark hair was still damp.
He wore a clean black sweater that concealed the bandage on his shoulder.
A soft knock came at the door.
Bishop entered, carrying a silver tray with warm toast, poached eggs, and a glass of fresh orange juice.
Behind him walked a middle-aged woman carrying a portable diagnostic machine.
“Del,” Sloan said, standing up. “This is Dr. Maria Alva. She was the head of obstetrics at Brigham and Women's before she retired. She is the only person outside this room who knows you are here.”
Dr. Alva offered a warm, professional smile.
“Mrs. Marchetti,” the doctor said gently. “Sloan said you haven't had a sonogram in six weeks.”
Del looked at Sloan.
He looked back, unapologetic.
“Just making sure he’s healthy,” Sloan muttered, looking away like a scolded schoolboy.
Del sighed, but the tension in her shoulders eased.
She missed her clinic visits.
She had spent every waking hour worrying about the baby’s growth while carrying heavy trays at the Copper Lantern.
“Alright,” Del said softly.
Dr. Alva set up the machine on a small rolling cart.
She warmed the clear gel between her palms before applying it to Del’s swollen belly.
The cold shock made Del inhale sharply.
Sloan stepped closer, his knuckles resting against the edge of the chaise.
Dr. Alva pressed the transducer to the skin.
The machine hissed with static.
Then—
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The sound filled the quiet bedroom.
Rapid.
Fierce.
A galloping rhythm of pure, unbroken life.
One hundred and forty-eight beats per minute.
Sloan’s entire body went rigid.
He stared at the small monochrome screen.
On the display, the curved spine of an infant appeared in grainy white shadows.
A tiny hand was curled into a fist, resting against the curve of his skull.
“Fetal development is exceptional,” Dr. Alva said, measuring the femur length with digital crosshairs. “Thirty-one weeks. Good amniotic fluid index. Strong cardiac output.”
Sloan leaned in closer, his face inches from the screen.
“Is that his hand?” he whispered.
“It is,” Dr. Alva smiled. “He’s sucking his thumb.”
Sloan let out a ragged breath that sounded like a prayer.
He reached down and found Delphine’s hand.
His grip was fierce, but his thumb moved back and forth over her knuckles with infinite tenderness.
“Look at him, Del,” Sloan breathed.
Del looked.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks.
For seven months, she had looked at blurry printouts alone in a damp apartment, crying into her pillow because she had no one to share them with.
Now, the father she had fled was holding her hand as if she were the center of the universe.
Dr. Alva wiped the gel away with a warm towel.
“You need rest, Mrs. Marchetti. Your blood pressure is slightly elevated. No stress. No running.”
She glanced at Sloan with a stern look.
“No shootouts in the dining room, Mr. Marchetti.”
Sloan didn't smile.
“Understood, Doctor.”
Dr. Alva packed her equipment and exited with Bishop.
The door clicked shut.
Del pulled her shirt down over her belly.
She looked at Sloan.
“How is Cora?”
“The swelling in her throat has subsided,” Sloan said. “Dr. Alva removed the ventilator an hour ago. She’s sleeping naturally.”
“And Elena?”
Sloan’s eyes darkened.
“Her father called twenty minutes ago. Don Vance is flying into Logan Airport at noon.”
Del’s heart skipped a beat.
“Is there going to be a war?”
Sloan walked to the window, looking out over the fortified lawn.
“Don Vance doesn't want a war. He wants to save his daughter's life.”
Sloan turned back to her.
“The real snake isn't from Chicago, Del.”
“What do you mean?”
Sloan reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of yellowed paper.
He handed it to her.
Del unfolded it.
It was an official Massachusetts Department of Public Health report dated three years ago.
A fatal dosage of morphine administered to a patient at Saint Jude’s Hospital.
Del’s name was listed as the attending nurse.
The incident that had destroyed her career.
The incident that had made her believe she was a monster who had killed an innocent man through exhaustion.
The reason she had fled Boston in shame.
“Why do you have this?” Del whispered, her hands beginning to shake.
“Because the signature on that medical chart isn't yours,” Sloan said quietly.
Del’s head snapped up.
“What?”
May you like
“The digital keycard used to open the pharmacy dispensary that night belonged to my uncle, Vincent Marchetti,” Sloan said, his voice dripping with venom. “He framed you, Delphine. He wanted you out of my life so I would marry into the Chicago syndicate.”
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