Chapter 11
Lorenzo
“Sir,” Rosa says softly from the doorway. “She sent the tray back.”
I don’t look up right away. “Untouched?”
Rosa dips her head. “Yes, sir.”
The paper in my hands blurs for a moment before I set it aside. The reports can wait. I’ve given her space. More than I give anyone. Three days should’ve been enough. I understand needing time to grieve. God knows I do. But three days without food is too much.
I stand, the chair legs scraping quietly against the floor. Rosa steps back, sensing my mood.
“Did she say anything?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw. “Has anyone checked on her?”
“I tried this morning,” Rosa says, hesitating. “She told me she was fine, but she looked pale.”
That’s all I need to hear. I move past her, ignoring the way her eyes flicker with unspoken worry.
The hallway is quiet, the faint hum of the city the only sound. As I approach Elizabeth’s door, something tightens in my chest. It’s a tension I can’t name. I tell myself it’s concern. Duty. Guilt. Anything but what it really is.
I knock once. “Elizabeth?”
No answer.
I wait a moment longer, then try again. “It’s Lorenzo. Open the door.”
Still nothing.
I try the handle, and it turns easily. The door creaks open just enough for me to see inside.
The curtains are drawn, the room heavy with shadows. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something else.
Blood.
My stomach drops as I flip on the lights. “Elizabeth?”
She’s slumped halfway off the bed, skin pale and glistening with sweat, one hand clutching her side.
“Christ,” I mutter, crossing the room in two strides. I drop to my knees beside her, pressing my hand gently against her cheek. She’s burning up.
“Rosa!” I bark. “Get Cesaro! Call Dr. Lars—now!”
Elizabeth’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, glassy. “Lorenzo?”
“I’m here,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’re going to be fine.”
She makes a weak sound, half a laugh, half a groan. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
I press the back of my hand to her forehead again. She has a fever and it’s too high. The bandage around her side is soaked through, the wound angry and red.
“Dammit,” I whisper. “You should’ve told me.”
Her lips move, the words barely a breath and she shivers. “Didn’t…want to bother you.”
I close my eyes for a second, fighting the urge to curse. When I open them, I gather her carefully into my arms.
“Hold on,” I tell her, rising to my feet. “You’re not allowed to leave me too.”
She’s far too light, her skin fever-hot against my arm. Her head lolls against my shoulder, breath shallow and uneven.
“Hold on, Elizabeth,” I murmur, already moving toward the door. “Just hold on.”
Rosa gasps when she sees us in the hallway, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Get towels. Boil water,” I order. “And tell Cesaro I want Dr. Lars here ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, sir!”
Every second stretches into agony as I carry her to my room. Her fingers twitch against my shirt, leaving faint smudges of blood on the white fabric.
When we reach my room, I kick the door open and lower her onto my bed. My bed. The thought barely registers. All that matters is keeping her breathing.
Her eyes flutter again, unfocused. “Lorenzo…”
“I’m here.” I brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead, my thumb tracing the edge of her cheek. “You’re safe. Just stay awake for me.”
She tries to smile. “Bossy.”
The word breaks something in me.
“Always,” I whisper.
“Sienna,” she starts. “Sienna said…”
Her eyes close again, her breathing slowing. Panic claws at my throat. I rip open the first-aid drawer, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, anything to keep her stable until help arrives.
By the time Dr. Lars bursts through the door with Cesaro, my hands are slick with blood.
The doctor stops short, taking in the scene. Me kneeling beside the bed and Elizabeth pale and still against my sheets.
“What happened?” he demands, setting down his case.
“Her gunshot wound is infected.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “She’s burning up.”
Lars nods briskly and motions to Rosa. “Hot compresses. I need saline, and—” He pauses. “You should step out of the room, Mr. Conti.”
“I’ll stay,” I say.
The doctor looks up sharply. “It’s better if you wait outside.”
I meet his gaze. “I said I’ll stay.”
The words leave no room for argument. The air in the room shifts. Cesaro, still in the doorway, doesn’t move. Rosa doesn’t even breathe.
The doctor nods once and returns to his work.
He cleans the wound quickly, efficiently. But it’s brutal to watch. Every touch of gauze makes Elizabeth flinch, her face twisting with pain even in unconsciousness.
“Easy,” I murmur under my breath, as if the sound alone could shield her from it.
When she stirs, a soft sound breaks from her throat—half gasp, half sob. My chest tightens. Before I can think better of it, I reach for her hand.
Her skin is damp and fever-warm. She grips my fingers weakly, like her body knows me even if her mind doesn’t. That small, desperate pressure hits harder than any bullet ever could.
The doctor glances up, eyes flicking between us, but he’s smart enough not to say a word.
He pours antiseptic over the wound and she jerks, a low cry escaping her. I almost pull his hand away. Instead, I force myself to stay still, my jaw locked, my thumb rubbing slow circles over her knuckles.
“You’re hurting her,” I say quietly.
“Her wound is infected, sir,” Dr. Lars replies. “It’s the only way.”
I know he’s right. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.
Her body trembles. Her breathing hitches. And all I can do is hold her hand tighter, letting her squeeze until my own fingers ache.
“Almost done,” the doctor mutters.
When he finally finishes, the wound is clean, the bandage fresh. Her grip loosens, her arm falling back against the sheets. She’s trembling, lips parted, sweat glistening on her forehead.
“She’ll rest now,” Dr. Lars says softly, his tone cautious. “I’ve given her an injection for the infection and something for the fever. But she needs rest. And food.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at her. At the faint pulse fluttering in her throat.
At the strands of hair clinging to her face.
She looks so breakable, so human. I’ve seen a thousand people bleed.
I’ve watched men die for less than a debt.
But watching her suffer feels different, like something inside me is tearing.
I wipe the dampness from her temple with the edge of a clean towel, my hand steady even though everything inside me isn’t.
“Get out,” I say finally, my voice rough.
The doctor hesitates. “Sir—”
“I said get out.”
He gathers his things and leaves without another word. Cesaro follows silently, closing the door behind them.
And then it’s just the two of us.
The firelight flickers across her skin, and for a long time, I just stand there, trying to breathe through the sound of my own heartbeat.
She stirs again, whispering my name like a question.
I sit beside the bed, elbows on my knees, watching her.
“You should’ve told me,” I murmur again, the words rougher now. “You don’t get to disappear too.”
Her lips part, a soft breath escaping. I can’t tell if she’s awake or dreaming.
I reach out, brushing my thumb gently across the back of her hand
“Rest, Elizabeth,” I murmur. “You’re safe now.”
But the truth is, I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince—her or myself.
Hours later her skin is still warm, but the fever’s beginning to break. Relief hits me like a wave, sharp and dizzying. My head drops into my hands.
Somewhere between the steady rhythm of her breathing and the crackle of the fire, I realize something I shouldn’t—something dangerous.
Losing Sienna broke me.
But losing Elizabeth might destroy me.