31. Luciano
Chapter 31
Luciano
I wake to the steady, low beeping of a heart monitor and a harsh fluorescent light piercing the darkness behind my eyelids. My body feels like lead pressed against unforgiving sheets. A dull, throbbing ache radiates through my stomach, pulsing with each breath. The dryness in my mouth suggests I haven’t had water in too long.
For a moment, I can’t remember where I am—or why. My mind is a swirl of images: blood pooling on a thin carpet, a battered motel lamp spitting sparks into the darkness, Gianna’s terrified eyes. That last memory cuts through the fog, and suddenly, my pulse hammers in my ears. I surge upright—too fast—wincing as pain rips through my abdomen.
“Easy,” a voice says, tense but steady. “Don’t tear your stitches.”
I blink away the burn of the overhead light and focus on the figure standing at the window. Dante is watching me with an expression I’ve only seen on him a handful of times in my life—a cross between profound relief and barely contained exasperation. He crosses the room in a few long strides, stepping into the glow of the overhead lamp. The lines on his face look like he’s aged weeks in the span of days.
“Dante,” I rasp, my throat so dry it comes out as a croak. I glance around, the hospital environment snapping into sharper focus: bland walls, scuffed linoleum, a door half-cracked open to a hallway that smells of bleach and disinfectant. An IV bag hangs near my bed, lines trailing into my arm. A blood pressure cuff is fastened around my bicep. Monitors beep in a soft chorus.
My eyes drift to the window where night presses against the glass. If it’s night again, how long have I been asleep? The last I remember, the sun was rising. Fear coils in my gut like a viper. “How…” My voice falters as a fresh throb hits my side. “How long have I been here?”
Dante takes a seat by the bed. “You’ve been in and out for nearly a week,” he responds. “They did emergency surgery on you in some backwater hospital near Great Bend, patched you up enough so you wouldn’t bleed out. Once you were stable enough for transport, I had you moved here so you’d be closer to the family.”
My heartbeat picks up again. A week. A week of blackness. A week in which Gianna might have?—
“Gianna,” I choke out, the single syllable jolting my adrenaline. “Where is she? Is she—?” The question claws at my throat, fear gripping me so hard my vision blurs for a second.
Dante’s jaw tenses. He glances down at his hands, then back at me. “She’s alive,” he says. But the way he says it makes my stomach twist. “Look, we’ll get there in a second. You need to understand everything that happened.”
“No,” I snap, a trace of desperation creeping into my tone. “I need to see her.”
He lifts a hand to stop me. “You will. I promise.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, making me want to punch something and pull him closer at the same time. “But you nearly died, Luc. You had a fuck ton of internal bleeding. You were delirious with a fever for three days. Even now, you’re on the mend, but you’re not okay.”
I grit my teeth, frustration flaring. “I don’t care about me. I care about Gianna.”
“Don’t you think she cares about you?” Dante retorts. “Let me tell you what happened; then you can do what you’re going to do.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Giovanni. You remember shooting him, right?”
Suddenly, everything floods back—Giovanni in the motel, Gianna in tears, a gun pressed against her forehead, my finger on the trigger of my own gun. Another wave of nausea rolls through me. “I remember.” My mind conjures the moment in excruciating detail: the muzzle flash, the recoil, the rush of horror and satisfaction and fury all twisted into one. “He was bleeding out when I heard the police sirens.”
Dante nods slowly. “The medics tried to save him. But the bullet tore through his abdominal artery. Too much blood loss too quickly. There was nothing they could do. He died on the way to the hospital.”
A strange numbness wraps around my heart, a reaction I can’t quite define. Relief? Horror? The man tried to murder my wife. He tried to murder my Gianna. My instincts tell me to feel triumphant that he can’t hurt her again, but something is wrong.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Good,” I reply, though the word tastes bitter. “He can’t hurt her anymore.”
Dante inclines his head in agreement but doesn’t speak. The silence that follows is thick, a thousand emotions swirling with nowhere to land. Finally, I scrape out the question we both know I’m desperate for. “Gianna. Please. I need to know—where is she? Is she okay? Did the police?—?”
He cuts me off, voice dropping. “She’s… not okay, exactly.” Dread threads through my veins as Dante carefully continues. “After you passed out, she went into shock. The cops tried to separate her from you, but she fought them. She started… she started bleeding. They rushed her to the hospital as well despite the fact that she had no visible signs of a gunshot wound.” His gaze flicks to the monitors behind me like he can’t stand to meet my eyes. “She’s pregnant.”
I breathe in shallow bursts, the world narrowing to that single word. “That’s what her letter said.” A shudder rattles down my spine. “Or what she thought might be the case. She wasn’t sure.”
Dante’s expression is grim. “The doctors were worried she was miscarrying. Between the stress and the physical strain—she collapsed right there in the hotel parking lot.” He exhales, rubbing his temples. “They’ve been monitoring her. They say it could go either way. Her hCG levels are still rising, which is a good sign, but they’re not convinced she’s out of the woods yet.”
A hollow ache grips my chest so deep I almost stop breathing. Giovanni’s cruelty reverberates even after his death, threatening the life of my child— our child. And Gianna, she must be petrified. Dealing with this all alone. “Take me to her,” I demand, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. My stomach screams in protest as I try to swing my legs off the bed.
“Luc,” Dante starts, placing a hand on my shoulder to hold me in place. “Calm down. The bullet nicked your intestines. If you tear those stitches, you could start bleeding again. You almost died. She needs you alive, not sprinting around the hospital like a maniac.”
“I can’t just stay here while she’s in some other room, maybe losing our baby. What kind of man would that make me?”
Dante’s jaw tightens. “Give me five minutes to get a nurse. We’ll do this the right?—”
But his words are cut off by the shrill beep of alarms as I yank out my IV line. A spurt of blood trickles from the needle site, but I barely register the sting. The heart monitor leaps in alarm, the line on the screen going into chaotic peaks and valleys. I grit my teeth and shove the bed sheets aside. The world spins dangerously for an instant, a wave of dizziness that nearly knocks me flat.
“God damn it, Luc,” Dante curses, lunging to steady me. “You want to kill yourself?”
I shake my head, blinking past the black spots dancing in my vision. “No. I want to see my wife.” The tubes taped to my chest pull uncomfortably as I begin detaching them, each beep ratcheting up my panic. “Help me stand,” I grind out.
He tries to protest, but he knows me too well. He knows I’ll crawl if I have to. With a low, frustrated growl, Dante slips an arm under my shoulder and helps me to my feet. My hospital gown is open in the back, the chill of the air sending goosebumps over my skin. The dull ache in my abdomen blooms into a fierce stab, and I stagger, leaning heavily on my brother.
“Easy,” he mutters, hooking a hand around my waist so I won’t collapse. “This is insane.”
I force my lips into a thin line, fighting a wave of nausea. “I don’t care,” I hiss at him. A nurse bursts into the room, wide-eyed at the sight of me upright with trailing wires and dripping blood from the IV site. She starts babbling about how I need to lie down and how my vitals are going haywire. Her voice is merely an annoying buzz in my ears. “Where’s Gianna?”
The nurse looks to Dante for guidance, but I pin her with a glare. “My wife,” I say louder. “Where is she?”
She stammers, “S-she’s in the maternity ward. Room 312, but sir, you can’t just?—”
I’m already moving, ignoring the searing pain. My legs feel like wet sand, but adrenaline fuels each step. The nurse tries to block our way, but Dante waves her off with an expression of resignation. I can feel the slow seep of fresh blood through the bandages on my abdomen.
Dante ducks under my arm, half carrying me as we stumble into the hallway. The overhead lights are glaring white, and every antiseptic corridor looks the same. Nurses and doctors spin to stare. I hear one call out, “Code Blue in 403. He’s unhooked—” I don’t care. The only code that matters is Gianna, the only bed that matters is the one she’s lying in.
Fear coils so tight in my chest that each breath is a struggle. I push forward, leaning heavily on my brother, my free hand pressed to the bandage on my stomach to keep pressure on the wound. Each jolt of pain is a reminder that I’m alive, that I can still do something, that I can rewrite history and show Gianna once and for all that I’m not the man she thinks I am.
At last, we round a corner and see a sign for Maternity Ward. There’s a small desk at the entrance where an older nurse stands, confusion etched into her features at the sight of me staggering down the hallway in a half-open gown. “You can’t be—” she starts, but I bulldoze past her. “Sir, you’re not authorized?—!”
“Which room is 312?” I snap. She points down the hall. Dante tries to slow me, but I shove away from him, forcing myself to walk on my own. My vision narrows, and I stumble forward, ignoring the swirl of dizziness that hits me like a ton of bricks.
312. The number leaps out from the whiteboard outside a partially closed door. I slam my palm against it, pushing it open with too much force. The door smacks the wall, startling the occupant inside.
She’s in bed; hair limp around her shoulders, IVs taped to her arms, eyes red from what must be hours of crying. Gianna. Her gaze snaps toward me, and for an instant, she looks so fragile I’m afraid she might vanish if I breathe wrong. Then recognition and shock flood her expression.
“Luciano?” She gasps, voice trembling. She tries to sit up, but an alarmed nurse inside the room jumps to hold her down gently. Gianna’s face crumples, tears welling up as she sees the blood on my bandages and the fresh stains on my hospital gown. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding?—”
I cross the distance in two strides, dropping to my knees beside her bed, ignoring the stab of pain that radiates from my abdomen. I reach for her hand, which is clammy and shaky in mine. The relief of her warmth under my fingers slams into me like a wrecking ball.
“Are you okay?” I can barely force out the words. “Dante told me you were—God, Gianna, he said you might?—”
Her lower lip quivers, and tears spill down her cheeks. “I don’t know. The doctor said it’s too soon to tell. There was bleeding, but she said my hormone levels were still rising. It’s too soon to find a heartbeat.” Her voice fractures on the last words.
A rush of fragile hope surges through me. I bow my head, swallowing back a sob. My entire life has been one blood-soaked confrontation after another, but this fear is on another level altogether. “I’m so sorry,” I say, gripping her hand so tightly I worry I might hurt her. “If I’d protected you better, if I hadn’t let you run?—”
“Stop,” she whispers. “Don’t do this. You saved my life in that motel room. You nearly died because of me.”
She’s crying harder now, a broken sound that tears at my chest. I rise partially to plant a kiss on her temple, wincing at the jagged pain that flares when I move. “Worth it,” I breathe against her hair. “I’d do it again. A thousand times if I had to.”
The nurse hovers behind me, practically wringing her hands in alarm. “Sir, you need to lie down. You’re bleeding through your bandages.”
Gianna’s eyes widen, noticing the crimson blot seeping along my midsection. “Luciano, please. You’ll rip your stitches. I can’t lose you. Not now. Not—” She breaks off with a ragged sob, and that single sound is enough to physically crush me.
“Shh,” I murmur, cupping her face with my free hand. Her skin is softer than I remember, her tear tracks warm under my thumb. “You won’t lose me. We’re done losing each other.”
She searches my gaze, then she nods. Gently, almost reluctantly, she draws her hand from mine. “Go. Let them fix you or do whatever they have to do. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
A wave of dizziness hits me, and I grip the edge of her bed for balance. My side is on fire, and every heartbeat sends a jolt of agony through my torso. I sense Dante at my shoulder, a quiet pillar of support, arms ready to catch me if I fall. The nurse sets a hand on my forearm, giving me a firm look that brooks no argument.
I open my mouth to protest, but Gianna squeezes my wrist. “Please, Luc. I need you alive.”
The words slice through any bravado I might have. God, I love her, though I’ve never said it. It’s there in every ragged exhale, every tremor in my fingers as they brush her cheek. “I’ll be back,” I whisper, the promise laced with my desperation. “I’m not letting you face this alone.”
A faint smile curves her lips, pained but genuine. “I know.”
With Dante’s help, I force myself upright. The nurse frantically ushers me toward a wheelchair that’s materialized out of nowhere. I sink into it, hissing through my teeth, still not taking my eyes off Gianna. She holds my gaze, and I can’t look away. It feels like if I blink, something terrible might happen. Dante takes hold of the wheelchair’s handles, guiding me out of the room.
The hallway is chaos—staff members whispering, monitors chiming, anxious glances thrown my way. The overhead lights make me squint. Dante wheels me back through the corridors, following the nurse’s quick pace. Pain thrums in every nerve, but it pales compared to the terror that still grips my heart. Gianna might lose our child. She might lose the precious life we created, all because of what I did to her in pursuit of revenge.
The nurse ushers us into a small exam room down the hall, urging me onto a bed that crinkles with plastic liners. I bite back a groan at the movement. She and another staff member peel back the edge of my gown, revealing the soaked bandage wrapped around my abdomen. The wave of fresh blood makes Dante suck in a harsh breath.
“Damn it, Luc,” he mutters. “You couldn’t have waited ten fucking minutes so the nurses could have brought you over here without you blowing a stitch?”
I glare at him weakly. “I’d do it again,” I repeat, voice slurred with pain. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same if it were Adalina in that room.”
He doesn’t refute it. Instead, he stands aside and lets the professionals do their job. Time warps again, dissolving into a series of bright lights and urgent voices. They clean and re-suture part of the wound, talking in clipped, practiced tones about how lucky I am, how I’m pushing my body too hard, how I need to rest or risk infection. I tune them out. All I can see is Gianna’s tearful face behind my eyelids; all I can hear is her voice saying, “I need you alive.”
Eventually, the staff finishes patching me up. My side is wrapped in fresh gauze and reinforced with an even tighter band of medical tape. The pain recedes to a dull roar, helped by something they injected into my IV line—when did they even hook it back up?
Before I can protest, I’m back in a hospital bed, another room entirely—this one with large windows overlooking the twinkling lights of the city outside. It’s quiet, and the overhead lamps are dimmed. A nurse checks my vitals and warns me in no uncertain terms that if I pull another stunt like that, they’ll have me strapped down for my own good. I barely acknowledge her. My mind is too busy spinning with worry for Gianna.
When the nurse leaves, Dante lingers, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks like he’s about to lecture me again, but something in my face must dissuade him. “So what now?” He asks gently.
A thousand answers flood my mind. Now, I fix everything that’s broken between us. Now, I beg Gianna’s forgiveness for every way I failed her. Now, I hold her hand through whatever the doctors say about the baby. Now, I vow never to hurt her again. Now, I become the man she deserves, not just the one who wants her.
“I stay here until they say I can move, and then I go back to her. If they try to stop me…” I shrug, ignoring the burn in my abdomen. “They can try.”
Dante shakes his head, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re a stubborn bastard. Always were.” His smile fades. “If the worst happens…”
The words hang in the air, too terrible to speak. My gut clenches. If the worst happens and we lose the baby, Gianna will be devastated. I don’t know how we’ll survive that. But I’ll be damned if I won’t do everything to help her through it.
“We face it together,” I say firmly. “Whatever the outcome.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “I love her, Dante.”
A pause. We were never ones to talk about love. Our family dealings rarely left room for open sentiment. But I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I know,” he says, voice quiet. “I’ve known for a while.”
I let out a shaky breath and lean back against the pillows. My side throbs in time with my heartbeat, but the pain is dulled by a trickle of relief from the medicine in the IV line. At least Gianna is alive, in a bed just a few doors away. Giovanni is gone, and no one can hurt her like that again. The rest… we’ll figure it out.
“Rest,” Dante murmurs. “That’s an order, from your older brother. The sooner you heal, the sooner you can hold her properly.”
I bite back the urge to resist. My body is desperate for rest, and he’s not wrong. An anxious, unrelenting voice in my head keeps demanding: When can I see her? When can I hold her? When can I make sure she’s okay?
“Tomorrow,” Dante says softly, as if reading my mind. “We’ll get you into a wheelchair, or maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk, I don’t know. But tomorrow, you’ll see her again. Let them sedate you, rehydrate you, whatever they need to do to make you better. Then you can show up at her bedside with a little more color in your cheeks.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “She’s scared,” I say quietly, remembering the haunted look in her eyes. “She needs me.”
“And you need her,” he counters. “More than you care to admit. She’s not going anywhere, Luc. She told me as much before she insisted on staying in this hospital. She demanded to be near you.”
My heart clenches painfully. That simple statement ignites a spark of warmth in my chest, battling back the darkness. Despite the terror, the blood, the betrayal, she’s still here, still choosing me.
A nurse slips back into the room to check on the monitors. She administers something into the IV drip, a sedative or painkiller; I’m not sure which. My eyelids grow heavy, and the world loses its harsh edges. I fight to stay awake, but the drug is strong, and it pulls me into a fog of exhaustion and relief.
“Tomorrow,” Dante repeats, his voice distant now. “Tomorrow, you’ll see her.”
Tomorrow. That single word becomes my lifeline, the promise I cling to as consciousness slips away. Tomorrow , I’ll see Gianna. Tomorrow , I’ll tell her everything I’ve been too proud to say. Tomorrow , we start over.