Hours blurred. The waiting room became a cage. Nurses rushed in and out, answering none of the wives’ questions. Angelo’s men stood like statues against the walls, indifferent to the wives’ hissing demands.
Camilla, cold and with her usual stern expression , crossed her legs slowly, a queen unseated but unwilling to admit it. Ayra, fiery and restless, paced so hard her heels cracked against the tiles like gunfire. Zara, quiet and doe-eyed, clutched a rosary in her hands but didn’t speak.
Then a nurse in pale blue scrubs appeared at the door. “Mrs. Hera?” she called, her eyes sweeping the room.
Three heads snapped up at once.
Camilla’s dark red lips parted. “Yes, I…”
But the nurse didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at Ayra. Didn’t look at Zara.
Then her eyes finally landed on me.
“Mr. H
