Chapter One
One Month Later
Emilia
The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway are a buzzing haze as I finally clock out, my legs heavy with exhaustion.
I bite back a yawn and stretch my arms over my head as I walk down the halls, already daydreaming of my bed.
I haven’t slept in what feels like ages, and I imagine I look like a zombie, feel every bit like one too.
I blink against the bright lights, fighting the urge to find a corner and simply curl into a ball for the next fifty years. It’s been a brutal shift, and the idea of dropping where I stand sounds better and better the longer I think about it.
Still, it wouldn’t be a good look for the hospital to have one of their doctors balled up on the floor in some corner, napping. I just need to hold on a little longer, then I’ll have the next twelve hours all to myself.
With another yawn I don’t bother concealing, I drag myself to the nurses’ station.
My eyes light up when I spot my favorite nurse holding a mug of coffee, complete with a fragrant promise of temporary relief.
I shuffle forward, and the closer I get, the scent of the dark brew awakens my senses a little.
I grab the mug from her and take a tentative sip, the bitter liquid hitting my tongue and jolting me.
It's hot, and I wince slightly, but I already feel better. Even if it’s just the familiar ritual tricking my brain into waking up.
“Hmm,” I moan, risking another sip, careful not to scald my tongue this time. I close my eyes and savor the coffee, groaning as it hits all the right spots.
“Don’t you dare empty that mug, Doctor Conti!”
“Huh?”
I look up with a tired smile to find the nurse glaring at the coffee in my hands before lifting her narrowed eyes to mine.
Betty has the kind of eyes that press patients and doctors alike into submission, but she doesn't scare me.
Much. Being raised by an Italian mother who worked for Italian mobsters will leave one pretty fearless.
“Your coffee tastes the best,” I say, my voice a little raspy, so I take another sip. “I’ll bring you some of my mother’s famous desserts to make up for it.”
She must read the exhaustion on my face as her brows knit with concern. “How long have you been on shift?”
"I don't even know," I say with a yawn. "My shift's over though.
I think I'll just head home and catch some sleep—" The vibration in my pocket cuts me off, so I reach into my white coat for my phone, smiling when I see my mother’s name flash on the screen. She’s probably calling to invite me home for the weekend.
“Speak of the devil. I have to take this, Betty. See you on my next shift.”
“Hey, my coffee…never mind. You probably need it more,” she says, waving me off.
“I’ll return the mug later,” I call out as I walk away, taking another sip even as I answer my mother's call. "Ciao, Mama, I'm just finishing my shift—”
“Emilia, we need you!”
The panic in her voice sends me grinding to a halt. "Mama, what's wrong?"
"It's… Oh God, I can't tell you over the phone, mia cara. Come to the estate. Hurry, please, and bring your medical bag."
“Why, what happened? Mama!” I call out, but she’s already hung up. I dial her number again, but it sends me straight to voicemail. I dial my brother’s number, but that too sends me straight to voicemail. Panic swells in my chest as I hurry down the hallway.
She probably cut herself in the kitchen, I try to convince myself. My mother isn't fond of hospitals and only goes when either Luca or I bully her into doing so. She probably hurt herself in the kitchen and is being stubborn about coming to the emergency room. But she said “we.”
We need you.
Is it Luca? Is my twin hurt? It can't be the Rossis—they have an in-house family doctor. But what if…
I race to the physicians’ locker room and grab my bag, not bothering to change out of my scrubs. I dial my brother's number again as I hurry outside, but I’m sent back to voicemail. I consider calling one of the Rossi brothers but decide against it—Mama will explain everything when I get there.
The cab ride to the Rossi estate feels endless.
Every red light, every slow driver, every tourist crossing against the signal—I want to scream at all of them.
It takes nearly forty minutes to reach the gated property tucked in the wealthy suburbs just outside the city, and by the time we pull up the long driveway, I'm in full panic mode.
The front door flies open and my mother, a small woman with dark hair tied back in a tight bun, runs outside, my brother in tow.
Relief gives way to annoyance before it quickly morphs back into panic when I spot the blood on my mother's apron.
“Mama!” I call out as I reach her. “What happened to you?”
“It’s not mine,” she says, grappling for my wrist. "Come, cara. It's Antonio. He needs your help. Your bag?"
“I have it.”
Luca falls into step beside me as Mama drags me up the familiar stone steps and through the front door. I've walked these halls my entire life, played hide and seek in these rooms as a child, but I don't register any of it now as we race through the house toward the kitchen.
The first thing I notice is Leonardo's panicked face and then the blood on his hands. The next is Matteo kneeling on the kitchen floor with his hands and clothes bloody.
And then there’s Antonio.
He's sprawled on a plush rug that must have been white at some point but is now stained crimson.
One leg of his trousers has been ripped to his thigh with a white blood-stained towel pressed firmly on a spot just above the knee.
His handsome face is pale, contorted in a grimace of pain with sweat glistening on his forehead.
My stomach clenches as I take him in. For a second, I am paralyzed with worry, but I quickly snap out of it.
The room blurs around me as I rush toward him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Matteo moves out of the way without me having to ask and doesn’t crowd me as I kneel beside Antonio, my eyes locked on his bleeding leg.
Luca passes me my bag, and my fingers fumble slightly as I rip it open, adrenaline surging through my veins.
“He was shot,” Matteo offers helpfully. “We’ve been applying pressure to the wound.”
“Okay,” I say, tugging off the towel to inspect the jagged hole in his leg but the gunshot is a flesh wound, and I am relieved when I realize it didn't hit anything vital.
Still, it doesn't assuage my worry. The bullet is lodged inside and needs to be taken out to stop the bleeding. “He needs to go to the hospital.”
“No!”
A series of voices ring out, including Antonio’s. “No hospital,” he says in a ragged breath.
“They are much better equipped to treat your wound and help with the pain,” I say even as I apply pressure to the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. “You’ve also lost a lot of blood. You might need a transfusion.”
“Just a few stitches, and I’ll be good to go.” His eyes meet mine, and I quickly look away, unwilling to be sucked into the beauty of those hazel eyes. Now’s not the time. In fact, the time is never. I promised myself not to fall back into that cruel trap.
“Someone boil water and get me clean towels,” I order, not looking up from the wound. “And I need good lighting—better than this."
Leonardo moves immediately, barking orders to the staff. Within moments, I have what I need. I pull alcohol from my kit to sterilize the area, my hands moving with practiced precision as I clean around the injury.
“It would hurt a whole lot less if we went to the hospital.” He winces as I clean the wound, his body tense but he remains silent.
I probe carefully, knowing the bullet is lodged somewhere in the soft tissue but unable to see it through all the blood.
“I’m going to need to get the bullet out,” I say, my voice steady despite my racing heart.
“Aren’t you going to ask how it happened?”
“Quiet,” I snap, grabbing a syringe from my bag and injecting him with an anesthetic to numb the area.
I reach for the forceps and begin the delicate process of extracting the bullet.
He winces as I probe, his breath hitching and a low groan escaping his lips.
I glance up briefly to find his eyes squeezed tight with a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple.
I can feel eyes on me, but I don't let that bother me as I take out the bullet.
I work carefully but fast, trying not to think of how he got injured in the first place.
I suppose it was while he was doing something illegal, or else he wouldn't be so reluctant about going to the hospital.
Every gunshot wound has to be reported to the police, and the Rossis aren't exactly on the best terms with the NYPD.
Once I’m done, I clean the wound with more alcohol, getting ready to start stitching him up. “You’re going to feel some pressure and discomfort.”
“I trust you, dottoressa,” he heaves in a rushed breath.
I ignore the way my heart jolts at his words, reaching for the needle and thread, my fingers moving swiftly to stitch the wound closed. I work fast, and I’m careful, making sure the knot is secured before applying a bandage and securing it tightly.
I turn to Leonardo, who’s stayed silent through the entire process. “He’s going to need strong painkillers and antibiotics. He’s also lost a lot of blood, so he’ll need to be put on IV fluids. He needs a hospital, Leonardo.”
“We have medical supplies stocked in this house,” he says firmly. “You’ll find everything you need here, but in case you don’t, you have only to ask.”