53 | He's too stubborn to die
The car wheezes its last breath as we pull into the Costa family estate.
My hands tremble, gripping the seatbelt as if it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
The night events loops in my mind, the gunfire cracking through the air, the sickening lurch of the car flipping, Luciano's blood seeping through his shirt, dark and glistening in the faint light.
My chest tightens. He's hurt, bleeding from his shoulder, and I can't stop the fear clawing at me.
He'd called his right-hand man from the road, his voice a low growl despite the pain I know he's hiding.
"Deal with the cops. Someone tried to kill us. Also bring me a car, now."That was all he said, sharp and final, before tossing the phone aside and waiting for his right-hand man to arrive with the car.
Now, parked in the shadow of the sprawling mansion, I see the strain on his face, the sweat beading along his brow, the way his breaths come shallow and uneven.
He's in agony.
I reach for him, my fingers brushing his arm, but before I can say anything, the front doors of the mansion burst open.
A flood of figures spills out, his mother, her dark hair streaked with silver, her face etched with worry; his three younger sisters, their voices overlapping in a frantic chorus; and two men in crisp white coats, the family's private doctors, already moving with purpose.
They know.
Of course they know.
Luciano's condition must've been relayed ahead by his right-hand man or someone else in his tight-knit circle.
My stomach twists as I watch them rush toward us, their footsteps echoing on the stone drive.
Luciano shifts beside me, grunting as he pushes the driver's door open with his good arm. The sound is raw, pained, and it makes my throat tighten.
I scramble out my side, my legs shaky beneath me, and hurry around to him.
He's already halfway out, his shoes hitting the ground with a heavy thud, but he sways, his injured shoulder slumping.
I slide under his arm without thinking, letting him lean on me.
He doesn't put his full weight on me, stubborn as always, like he's afraid he'll crush me, but I feel the heat of his body, the dampness of his blood-soaked shirt against my side.
He's too pale, too quiet, and I hate how helpless I feel.
"Luciano!" his mother cries, her voice breaking as she reaches us.
Her hands hover over him, afraid to touch but desperate to hold her son.
His sisters swarm around us too, their wide eyes taking in the wreckage of the car, the blood staining his clothes.
The doctors push through, one barking orders to the other about gauze and pressure, but I barely hear them.
My focus is on Luciano, on the way his jaw tightens as he straightens up, trying to look stronger than he is.
Then Gioia, the middle sister with her sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue, steps forward.
Her gaze locks on me, and I feel the venom before she even opens her mouth. "Che cazzo hai fatto?!"(Translation: What the fuck did you do?!)
"Sei una puttana maledetta! Lo hai ferito! Guarda cosa gli hai fatto!" she spits, her face twisted with disgust. (Translation:You're a damn whore! You hurt him! Look at what you did to him!)
I don't move. I don't flinch. I've been called worse.
But Luciano, he moves fast despite his injury. In a single motion, he releases me and surges forward, his hand snapping around Gioia's throat.
The gasp that leaves her lips is barely audible, drowned out by the tension crackling in the air. His grip isn't tight enough to choke her, but it's firm, unrelenting. His eyes, dark with fury, pin her in place.
"Stai zitta, Gioia." His voice is low, deadly. (Translation:Shut up, Gioia.)
She freezes, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she stares at him in shock.
Luciano tightens his grip just slightly, his body tense with restrained rage. "Non parlare mai più così di mia moglie." (Translation:Don't ever speak about my wife like that again.)
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
His mother stands still, her lips parted, but she says nothing. The other two sisters don't move.
Luciano releases Gioia with a sharp shove, sending her stumbling back a step. She clutches her throat, eyes wide with betrayal, but she doesn't say another word.
Luciano sways again, his strength faltering, and I help him from falling down on the ground.
His hand finds mine, squeezing hard, too hard, like he's anchoring himself to me, and I slide my arm around his waist, pulling him closer.
His weight settles against me more now, and I brace myself to hold him up.
The blood on his shirt smears onto my skin, warm and sticky, but I don't care. All I care about is getting him inside, getting him safe.
The doctors swarm in, one pressing a wad of gauze to his shoulder while the other mutters about needing to get him to the infirmary wing.
Luciano grunts something under his breath, waving them off with a weak gesture as he clings into me.
His mother steps in, her voice trembling beneath its firmness. "Luciano, basta. Let them help you." (Translation: Enough.)
For a second, he turns on her with that familiar fire in his eyes, the kind that once could silence a room.
But it's fading now. I see it, the way his glare falters, the way his body sways like he's barely tethered to this moment.
His breaths are shallow, uneven, like every one might be the last.
I step forward, heart pounding, voice cracking under the weight of everything we've been through.
I swallow hard. "Luciano... please. Let them help you."
His eyes meet mine, and for a heartbeat, time holds still. There's pain in them. But beneath it all, there's something else, something that breaks me open. Trust, maybe? Orfondness?
His lips part slightly, and a trembling breath escapes him. "F-Fine."
We stumble toward the mansion together, my arm locked around him, his family trailing behind us like shadows.
The grand foyer swallows us up, all marble and chandeliers, but it feels cold, hollow.
The doctors guide us down a side hall, toward the infirmary room, and I keep my eyes on Luciano.
His head dips, his dark hair falling into his face, and I want to brush it away, to tell him he's going to be okay, but the words stick in my throat.
They get him onto a table, and the doctors start working, cutting away his shirt, exposing the mess of blood and torn flesh.
I stand there, my hands clenched at my sides.
His shoulder's a wreck, the bullet lodged somewhere deep, and there's a gash along his side from the crash.
My stomach churns, bile rising, but I force it down.
He's still conscious, barely, his eyes finding mine through the chaos. There's something in them, something fierce, something that pins me in place.
"Aurelia," his mother says softly, her hand on my arm.
I flinch, startled, and turn to her.
Her face is lined with exhaustion, but her gaze is steady. "He'll be alright. He's too stubborn to die."