Chapter 8 - The Hospital Room
The private VIP recovery suite on the tenth floor of Mount Sinai Hospital was quiet, warm, and bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon.
In the center of the room sat Mrs. Margaret Hayes, propped up against a mountain of down pillows, wearing a soft lavender cardigan. The pale, exhausted grayness that had shadowed her face for three years of chronic kidney disease was completely gone, replaced by the healthy, rosy flush of circulating blood.
Her successful transplant surgery had concluded forty-eight hours earlier.
Sitting in the armchair beside the bed, holding her mother’s hand, was Khloe.
She had stripped off her corporate armor, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater and dark trousers, her hair tied back in a loose, comfortable knot, her face radiant with a peace she hadn't known since she was a child.
The door to the suite clicked open softly.
Roman walked in.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and dark trousers. In his left hand, he carried a massive bouquet of fresh white peonies and yellow freesias—her mother’s favorite flowers, which he had personally tracked down from a greenhouse in Connecticut.
Mrs. Hayes smiled warmly, extending her free hand toward the tall, intimidating man who had saved her life.
"Roman," Margaret said softly, her voice weak but full of deep, motherly affection. "You brought flowers again. The room looks like a botanical garden already."
Roman walked over to the bed, took the older woman’s hand with surprising, gentle care in his large, scarred fingers, and bent down to kiss her knuckles.
"The suite needed more color, Mrs. Hayes," Roman smiled—that rare, warm, and completely unarmored smile that belonged only to the people inside his inner circle. "How are the renal numbers this morning?"
"Dr. Chen says I can go home to the brownstone on Friday," Margaret replied, her eyes crinkling as she looked between Roman and her daughter. "The brownstone on Seventy-Second Street that you bought for us without telling Khloe."
Khloe gasped, her eyes snapping toward Roman in mock outrage. "You bought my mother a brownstone?!"
Roman shrugged casually, an amused, unrepentant glint dancing in his winter-gray eyes as he set the flowers on the side table.
"Your walk-up on Forty-Second Street had a broken radiator, Khloe. A woman recovering from an organ transplant needs central air and an elevator. It was an administrative necessity."
"You are impossible," Khloe laughed, standing up from her chair and throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook of his collar, breathing in his familiar, intoxicating scent of cedarwood and clean soap.
Roman’s strong arms wrapped securely around her waist, lifting her slightly off the floor, holding her flush against his broad chest as if she were the only real thing in the entire universe.
"I love you, little mouse," Roman murmured against her ear, his deep voice thick with an unshakeable, sacred devotion.
Khloe pulled back slightly, looking up into his handsome, scarred face, her amber eyes swimming with tears of pure, unadulterated happiness.
"I love you, Roman," she whispered.
May you like
"Even when you're an arrogant mafia boss."
Roman laughed—a rich, booming sound that echoed through the hospital suite—and kissed her right in front of her smiling mother, sealing the promise that their broken pasts were gone forever.
