Chapter 5 - The Sound of the Heartbeat
The private examination room in the maternal-fetal ward was blindingly white and painfully quiet.
Delphine sat on the edge of the examination table, wearing a pale blue paper gown.
Her bare legs dangled over the side, goosebumps prickling across her skin in the air-conditioned room.
Sloan stood by the closed door, his arms crossed over his chest like a sentinel guarding a high-value prisoner.
He had refused to leave the room, despite Delphine’s furious demands and the doctor’s polite hesitation.
In this hospital, nobody gave orders to Sloan Marchetti.
Dr. Catherine Vance, a composed woman in her late forties with sharp, intelligent eyes, entered the room carrying a medical tablet.
She did not ask questions about the armed guards stationed in the hallway or the blood dried beneath Delphine’s fingernails.
She was paid an astronomical salary by the Marchetti family to treat patients and keep her mouth shut.
“Lie back, please, Delphine,” Dr. Vance said gently, rolling the high-resolution ultrasound machine closer to the bed.
Delphine hesitated, then slowly reclined onto the padded table.
The ceiling tiles blurred above her eyes.
She felt exposed.
Vulnerable.
Everything she had fought so desperately to protect for the last seven months was about to be laid bare under a beam of sound waves and high-definition monitors.
Dr. Vance squeezed a generous dollop of clear, warmed conductive gel onto Delphine’s bare, rounded abdomen.
Delphine flinched at the initial cold sensation.
From the corner of the room, Sloan moved.
He stepped up to the side of the table, his heavy presence instantly dominating the space.
Delphine turned her head away, staring fixedly at the blank wall on her left.
Dr. Vance pressed the ultrasound transducer against Delphine’s lower belly, tilting the probe with practiced ease.
The monitor flickered to life.
Gray, fuzzy static shifted across the screen before resolving into sharp, anatomical structures.
A curved spine.
The tiny outline of ribs.
Two delicate hands curled tightly near a tiny face.
Delphine’s breath caught in her throat.
No matter how many times she had seen an ultrasound, the sheer miracle of the life growing inside her always shattered her defenses.
A single tear escaped her eye, tracking silently down her cheek.
Dr. Vance tapped a few keys on the keyboard.
Suddenly, a sound filled the silent examination room.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
A rapid, powerful, mechanical rhythm.
One hundred and forty-five beats per minute.
The sound of a healthy, thriving human heart echoing off the sterile walls like a thunderclap.
Delphine closed her eyes, letting out a trembling exhale.
Beside her, the silence was absolute.
Delphine turned her head slightly to look at Sloan.
The ruthless mafia boss, the man who had ordered executions without flinching, was staring at the small monochrome monitor with wide, unblinking eyes.
His hands, normally clenched into tight, lethal fists, hung limp at his sides.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths.
The color had drained from his face, replaced by a raw, overwhelming shock that cracked his iron mask into a thousand pieces.
“That’s… the heart?” Sloan whispered, his voice trembling in a way Delphine had never heard before.
“Yes, Mr. Marchetti,” Dr. Vance said, her eyes fixed on the screen as she took measurements.
“That is the fetal heart rate.”
“Strong, regular, and perfectly healthy.”
Sloan took an unsteady step closer to the bed.
His gaze moved from the screen down to Delphine’s exposed belly, where the doctor’s probe was gliding smoothly over the gel.
“Gestational age?” Sloan asked, his voice hoarse, demanding the final, indisputable truth.
Dr. Vance measured the femur length and biparietal diameter with digital calipers.
“Thirty-one weeks and four days,” Dr. Vance stated clearly.
“Due date is in approximately seven weeks.”
The math was simple.
Devastatingly simple.
Thirty-one weeks ago was Valentine’s weekend.
The exact weekend, seven months ago, when Sloan had tracked Delphine down to a remote coastal cabin in Maine.
Delphine remembered that night with terrifying clarity.
A brutal winter blizzard had knocked out the power.
Sloan had kicked the front door off its hinges, soaked in snow, his eyes wild with obsession.
He had found her after two years of searching.
They had fought.
Viciously.
Plates had shattered against the walls.
Words had been screamed that could never be taken back.
And then, amidst the freezing cold and the crackling fireplace, the toxic, desperate passion they had shared for five years had consumed them both.
A night of feverish, reckless surrender.
By the time dawn broke over the frozen pine trees, Delphine had slipped out of the bed while Sloan was still asleep.
She had taken a bus south, vanishing once more into the labyrinth of the city, changing her name and severing all ties.
She had discovered she was pregnant four weeks later.
Sloan Marchetti stood over the examination table, the truth hitting him like a freight train.
The timeline was undeniable.
There was no other man.
There had never been another man.
The child Delphine was carrying beneath her heart was his.
A Marchetti heir.
Sloan slowly dropped down onto one knee beside the examination bed, bringing his face level with Delphine’s.
His eyes were dark, stormy, and swimming with unshed tears of rage, relief, and terrifying possessiveness.
He reached out, his bare hand trembling as he placed his wide palm against the side of her bare belly, right where the baby was pressing against her skin.
Underneath his palm, a distinct, tiny movement fluttered.
A kick.
Directly against his hand.
Sloan shuddered, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
He looked up into Delphine’s cold, tear-stained face.
“You knew,” he choked out, his voice vibrating with a mixture of immense awe and deadly fury.
“You knew this was my child.”
“And you let me believe you were gone forever while you carried my blood in secret?”
Delphine pulled her gown down over her stomach, breaking his contact, her voice cutting through the hum of the machine like ice.
“I carried a child, Sloan.”
“Not a weapon for your war.”
“And as long as I have breath in my lungs, you will never turn this baby into a monster like you.”
Sloan slowly stood back up to his full, menacing height, wiping the vulnerability from his face like dirt from a shoe.
The dangerous, predatory king had returned.
“You are never leaving my sight again, Delphine,” Sloan said, his voice ringing with absolute finality.
“From this second on, you belong in my house, under my guard, and by my side.”
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“And tomorrow, we find the person who poisoned Cora.”
“Because whoever tried to kill my sister just threatened the mother of my child.”
