Page 172 of The One
A shadow flickers across Santino’s face, dark and uneasy.
“She did. Your brother was right.”
Wow. I can hardly believe it.
When Teo first told me about his brother’s dream and his unwavering conviction that Ella would show up at the Formula One event in Brazil, I thought it was nothing more than a desperate man clinging to hope.
But now? Now, I’m in awe of just how in tune he must be with her.
“Then where is she?”
Santino hesitates, his gaze flicking around the room before he lowers his voice even more. “Signor De Marco left without her.”
Mateo goes rigid beside me. “What? That makes no sense.”
I feel the shift in him, the barely restrained tension, and I understand why. Gualtiero De Marco would never willingly leave Ella behind. I’ve seen the way he was with her, obsessed and consumed. Devastated when she ran.
The idea that he’d just walk away from her? Impossible.
“What happened?” Mateo’s voice is dangerously quiet. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Santino opens his mouth, but before he can answer, the door swings open.
A doctor steps inside, still wearing dark blue scrubs. His face is unreadable, his expression composed, but his eyes go straight to Mateo. He bows his head slightly in acknowledgment. Everyone in Sicily knows who the De Marcos are.
Mateo straightens. “Everyone leave the room.”
The order is immediate, and the men obey without hesitation. I try to slip my hand from Mateo’s, but his grip tightens, an almost imperceptible shake of his head telling me to stay.
My father lingers by the door, his eyes drilling into my back before he finally steps out. If he had any doubts about what I mean to Mateo, he doesn’t now.
The doctor wastes no time. “Sir, Signor De Marco made it through surgery,” he says, his voice measured. “But his condition remains critical.”
The air in the room shifts, a silent inhale of tension.
“The damage was extensive. The bullet destroyed his left lung, and the right is too compromised to sustain him. He needs a transplant, and soon.”
I clutch Mateo’s arm instinctively, horror closing my throat.
“We don’t have the facilities here for a transplant,” the doctor continues. “As soon as he’s stable enough, he’ll need to be transported to Rome.”
Mateo’s jaw clenches. “How soon?”
“That depends. Transporting him in this condition is extremely risky. But there’s another complication…” The doctor hesitates. “Signor De Marco’s blood type is rare. Finding a suitable donor will be difficult.”
The room feels smaller. Tighter. The air is too thick to breathe.
Mateo’s fingers twitch against mine, and I rest my free hand on his forearm, hoping my touch will ground him, or at least remind him I’m here.
Don De Marco is the only family Teo has left. Losing him would devastate him.
Please, God, please don’t take his brother.
“How much time does he have?” Mateo’s voice is rough with the weight of it all.
The doctor exhales, his expression grim. “We’ve placed him on a ventilator, but his oxygen levels are unstable. We’ll need to put him on ECMO to keep him alive while we search for a donor.”
He pauses, his next words hanging in the air like a death sentence.
