Luciano stood confused, the buzz of fluorescent lights above doing little to drown out the storm inside his chest. The smell of antiseptic was thick, but not enough to mask the coppery scent of blood that still clung to his shirt. His hands were stained, knuckles stiff. It wasn't the blood that haunted him—it was how warm it had been.
The doors to the trauma room swung open, and a doctor stepped out, removing his gloves with brisk efficiency.
"Mr. Luciano?" he asked, voice measured, professional. Luciano straightened, jaw clenched.
"It seems like the bullet missed her lung by centimeters and fractured two ribs. We have internal bleeding. We need to operate immediately."
Luciano's throat felt like it had closed. "Then what are you waiting for?"
"We needed your consent." The doctor held out a form, already half-filled. "She's unconscious. And as her husband, legally—"
Luciano grabbed the pen without waiting for him to finish, scrawling his name with trembling fingers. "Do it. Whatever it takes."
The doctor nodded and turned back, barking orders through the double doors as they swung shut behind him.
Luciano was left alone in the hallway.
He sat down heavily on the bench, head in his hands. His palms were slick with sweat, streaked red. He stared at them like they didn't belong to him. His control—his composure—was crumbling.
He had built empires on fear, held entire cities in the palm of his hand. But none of that mattered now.
He couldn't protect her.
He hadn't protected her.
Minutes bled into hours. The hospital seemed to pulse with time, machines humming faintly behind closed doors, footsteps echoing in far-off halls. His phone rang. Again. Again. He didn't answer. He couldn't stomach the sound of anyone else's voice.
A nurse approached at some point. "Would you like to change, sir? We have something clean."
He shook his head. "No."
She hesitated. "The blood—"
"It's hers," he said quietly. "I'm not taking it off until she opens her eyes."
She said nothing more.
Eventually, footsteps broke through the hush. Heavy. Purposeful.
Luciano looked up as one of his men approached, eyes dark, tension in every line of his body. "We found something."
"Talk."
"We pulled security footage. The shot came from inside. Someone got past your guards."
Luciano's spine straightened. Cold fury washed over him, tamping down the ache in his ribs, the tightness in his chest.
"Who?"
"We're still reviewing. But... there's a name that keeps surfacing. Bianca."
Luciano's face hardened. He stood slowly. "I want everything. Every detail. Every contact. If she was behind this—"
The words hung in the air like a blade mid-swing.
He turned just as the doctor reappeared, his scrubs stained, gloves hanging loose around his wrist.
"She made it," he said. "The surgery went well. She's still under anesthesia, but she'll live."
Luciano didn't move for a beat. Then, a breath escaped him. Not relief. Something deeper. A shudder.
"Can I see her?" he asked.
The doctor nodded. "Just for a moment."
The room was dim when he entered. Machines beeped softly. Nia lay pale against the stark white sheets, her chest rising in shallow, steady breaths. She looked fragile. Small.
Luciano approached slowly, almost afraid to touch her. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and sat beside her, the chair creaking beneath him.
"I should've kept you away from this," he whispered. "You didn't ask for this world."
His voice broke. Just slightly.
"But I'll make them pay. Every last one of them. And when you wake up, I swear—this won't be our story's end."
The machine beeped. Steady. Alive.
Luciano reached for her hand, gripping it gently but firmly, and for the first t
ime in years, he let silence fall around him—not as a weapon, but as a prayer.