Chapter 24 - Whispers in the Recovery Room
The recovery room smelled of iodine, antiseptic, and the unmistakable chill of conditioned air.
Luca lay in the center of the room, stripped of his invincible aura. His broad, muscular chest was wrapped in tight white gauze from his shoulder down to his ribs, stark against the dark ink of his tattoos. An IV drip ticked steadily into the back of his right hand, and a thin plastic cannula fed oxygen into his nose.
He looked smaller against the sterile white linen, vulnerable in a way the world had never been allowed to see. But the moment the door clicked shut behind Isabella and me, his heavy eyelids flickered.
Slowly, painfully, his dark eyes opened.
They were cloudy with morphine, but the second they locked onto us, the tension in his rigid posture melted away.
"Luca..." I whispered, my voice breaking as I rushed to his bedside.
I reached out, wanting desperately to touch him, but terrified of causing him pain. Luca seemed to sense my hesitation. With agonizing slowness, his uninjured right arm lifted from the mattress, his large, calloused palm turning upward in invitation.
I placed my hand in his. His grip was weak—far from the iron clamp that usually possessed him—but the warmth of his skin sent a wave of relief crashing through my veins that nearly knocked me unconscious.
"You're... still here," he murmured, his voice thick and dry like sandpaper.
"Where else would I go, you idiot?" I scolded through a wet laugh, bringing his knuckles to my lips and pressing a fierce, lingering kiss against his skin. "You took a bullet for me."
"I would take... a thousand," he rasped, his eyes turning to the edge of the bed.
Isabella was standing there, her chin barely reaching the mattress rail. She was staring at the thick bandages across his chest with a look of profound, devastating guilt. Her lips were trembling, and she held her hands pressed flat against her stomach, afraid to move them.
Luca let out a soft sigh, turning his head on the pillow toward her. With his right hand, still holding mine, he extended his fingers toward his daughter.
Slowly, carefully, despite the IV tube tugging at his skin, Luca formed the signs: *COME HERE. MY HEART.*
Isabella gasped, a soft, hitching sound escaping her throat. She scrambled onto the edge of the low hospital bed, kicking off her patent leather shoes, and crawled toward his right side, being painstakingly careful not to touch his bandaged shoulder. She tucked herself beneath his good arm, pressing her ear directly over his heart, listening to the rhythmic, miraculous thump-thump of his pulse.
Luca closed his eyes, his arm wrapping securely around her little shoulders, pulling her against his ribcage. He buried his nose into her dark hair, inhaling the sweet, innocent scent of his child that contrasted so sharply with the stench of hospital disinfectant.
*I am sorry, Papa,* she signed with one small hand against his bicep. *I waved my hands. I showed you. But you got hurt.*
Luca’s jaw tightened, and he looked at me, urging me to translate.
"She thinks it's her fault," I whispered, my eyes burning. "She thinks because she signaled you to turn, the bullet hit you."
Luca gently grabbed Isabella’s chin, forcing her to look up into his fierce, unyielding gaze. He didn't just sign; he spoke the words aloud, his voice vibrating deep in his chest so she could feel the absolute conviction of his truth.
"Isabella," he said, signing with his right hand as he spoke. *NO. YOU ARE MY SHIELD. YOU SAVED ELENA. YOU SAVED ME. WITHOUT YOU, PAPA IS DEAD.*
Isabella’s eyes widened, tears spilling freely over her cheeks. She buried her face back into his neck, her tiny arms wrapping around his bicep as if she could fuse herself to him.
Luca looked back up at me, his gaze sweeping over my bruised throat, my torn dress, and the dark blood that covered my skin. The softness in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, predatory fury that chilled the room by ten degrees.
"Marco," Luca said, not raising his voice, but charging it with a terrifying authority that filled every corner of the room.
The door clicked open immediately. Marco stepped inside, his face stony and grim. "Don Luca."
"Who was on the roof?" Luca demanded, the morphine’s fog burned away by raw, vengeful adrenaline.
"Sniper was neutralized before we could take him alive," Marco replied smoothly, though his jaw was clenched tight. "Took a cyanide pill the second our sweep team breached the rafter catwalk. Professional. Russian syndicate make, but the rifle was sourced through an Italian port."
"A contractor," Luca concluded, his knuckles turning white against the bedsheet. "Someone paid five million dollars to bring a ghost into my city. Who opened the doors to the gala, Marco? Who turned off the secondary metal detectors in the east wing?"
Marco hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking toward me and Isabella.
May you like
"Speak," Luca commanded coldly. "Elena is my wife. There are no secrets kept from her in this house."
Marco took a breath, his shoulders straightening. "The security protocol for the east wing was signed off by one man’s clearance code, Don Luca. Don Valenti."
