Chapter 28 #2
Absolute contraindications: extreme temperatures, physical stress, and cold exposure—especially in the third trimester.
The words slammed into me.
Again.
And again.
I’d thrown her into the one place she was explicitly forbidden to go.
The one place that could kill her... and the child she carries.
A sound tore from me—a broken roar of grief and rage, as the paper crumpled in my hand.
“Ciro—!” I barked, my voice raw. “Ambulance! Now! Get every fucking doctor we have!”
I didn’t wait for an answer.
I moved—quickly, desperately, every second a fight against time.
I slid my arms under Elena’s body, lifting her in a single motion.
She was rigid and ice-cold.
Her head lolled slightly against my shoulder, her hair brushing against my jaw like frozen silk.
Then—hesitating only for a fraction of a second—I bent again.
Careful. Terrified.
And gathered the tiny body from the blood-soaked floor.
He was lighter than anything I’d ever held.
Too light. Too still.
I pulled him close to my chest.
My arms tightened instinctively around both of them.
Mother and child.
Fragile. Frozen.
Like something that would shatter if I breathed too hard.
“Move!” I snapped at the soldiers who had appeared at the doorway, hands outstretched.
“Boss, let us—”
“No.” The word came out rough. Shredded. “Don’t touch them.”
They froze.
I pushed past them, staggering into the corridor.
My legs strained under the weight.
My arms burned.
But I didn’t slow down.
My lungs dragged in air that felt like knives, my breath coming in short, ragged pulls as I forced myself forward.
Every step felt like punishment.
Every second felt like too much.
“Stay with me,” I panted, voice breaking as I looked down at them, helpless in my arms. “Both of you—stay with me.”
My grip tightened, careful not to hurt her, and I whispered through broken words, “I’m sorry... I’m so fucking sorry.”
The house felt endless.
Not in size—but in the way it seemed to stretch and twist around me, every corridor longer than it should be, every staircase rising like it was designed to punish anyone desperate enough to climb it.
My boots struck the marble hard.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Move—move—get out of the way!”
Servants and guards scattered as I barreled through, their faces blurring into shadows at the edges of my vision.
Someone shouted my name behind me. I didn’t stop to listen.
My lungs burned.
My chest ached with every ragged inhale.
Stay with me.
That was the only thought left.
Just those three words.
I burst through the main doors.
Night air slammed into me—cold, sharp, real.
Two ambulances were already waiting on the gravel, their lights strobing red and blue across the estate like a warning.
Doors open. Engines running. The smell of fuel and antiseptic cutting through everything.
Paramedics and doctors rushed forward immediately.
“Mr. Orsini—over here—”
“Place them on the stretcher!”
“Vitals—check vitals!”
Their voices overlapped, urgent, controlled—but not panicked.
I hesitated for a second.
My arms locked tighter around them.
I couldn’t—
I couldn’t let go.
Not like this.
A woman stepped forward.
She moved differently from the others—calm, precise, her presence cutting through the chaos without raising her voice.
Her eyes locked on mine, unwavering and piercingly focused.
“Mr. Orsini,” she said firmly, but not unkindly, “we need to take them. Right now. Treatment has to start in the ambulance if they’re going to survive.”
A pause.
“Please.”
The word hit harder than anything else.
My throat closed.
Slowly—
I forced my arms to loosen.
They took Elena first.
Carefully. Gently.
Like she was made of something that could break just by being looked at wrong.
They laid her onto the stretcher and immediately began attaching equipment.
Monitors. Leads.
Oxygen mask.
Her skin—still frozen—barely reacted to the warmth of the mask pressed over her lips.
“Sinus rhythm?” one of the doctors asked.
“Barely. Hypothermic,” another replied. “Prepare for resuscitation.”
They moved with speed now—precise, practiced.
IV lines inserted.
Warm fluids pushed.
A defibrillator wheeled into place.
“Pads ready.”
“Charging.”
Inside the second ambulance—
The baby.
My son.
So small. So still.
A nurse lifted him into a portable incubator, her movements careful, almost reverent.
Then she immediately placed two fingers on his chest.
And began compressions.
One.
Two.
Three.
Rhythmic. Relentless.
Desperate.
My chest tightened.
Inside the other ambulance, two female doctors worked urgently over Elena, and then the doors slammed shut—first one, then the other.
Engines roared.
And just like that—
They were gone.
Two streaks of red and blue cutting through the darkness as the ambulances peeled away down the drive, sirens screaming into the night.
Silence rushed in behind them.
I stood frozen on the gravel, the taillights of the ambulances already swallowed by the night.
Gone.
Just like that.
My arms were still curved in the shape of holding them—like if I stayed like this long enough, something would rewind.
Reverse.
Undo what I’d done.
It didn’t.
The cold seeped through my coat, through my shirt, into my bones. But that wasn’t what chilled me.
It was the silence.
Heavy.
Final. Punishing.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to move.
Turned.
Ciro stood a few paces away, exactly where he always positioned himself—hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression controlled.
Watching.
Measuring everything.
But something in the way he looked at me now felt... different—not concern, not fear, but something closer to calculation.
“Release Renzo immediately,” I said, my voice rough, stripped of everything.
“I want both of you at the hospital—now.”
Ciro inclined his head without hesitation.
“Of course, boss.”
A pause.
Then, almost casually—
“You should check on Violet while you’re there. She’s in the same hospital. Doctors say she’s just gone into labor.”
The words hit me, strange and out of place.
Since when did Ciro care this much about Violet?
He’d mentioned her twice in the last twenty minutes.
I almost asked, but the thought slipped past me like smoke.
There was no room for it—not while Elena and my son fought for life, not knowing if my own actions would doom them.
I turned away without another word.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Then I accelerated—striding, almost running.
I reached the nearest car—a black Lamborghini Aventador—and tore the door open.
Dropped into the driver’s seat without thinking.
My hands moved automatically—key, ignition, control.
The engine roared to life beneath me with a deep, violent snarl.
I reversed hard.
Tires screamed against the gravel.
The back end swung out sharply, spraying stones into the air like gunfire.
I corrected, slammed into drive, and shot forward.
The gates barely cleared before I floored it.
The road into Lombardy stretched ahead in long, blurred lines—sodium-orange lights streaking across black asphalt like fire bleeding into darkness.
I pushed the car faster.
Two hundred kilometers per hour.
Then more.
The engine screamed in protest.
I didn’t care.
Traffic appeared in flashes—headlights, taillights, movement.
I weaved through it with inches to spare.
Horn blared. Brakes screeched.
I didn’t look back.
Didn’t slow down.
My foot stayed welded to the accelerator.
My heart slammed in time with the engine.
Everything was too fast.
Except my thoughts.
Those dragged.
“Elena, I should not do this to you again—not after all the pain I’ve already caused... God! Please stay alive... let me spend the rest of my life groveling at your feet.”
The words repeated again.
And again.
And again.
“Please... just hold on. You deserve every bit of the goodness life can give.”
My grip tightened on the wheel.
Let her live.
Let the baby breathe.
I’ll trade anything.
Everything.
The thought was excruciatingly painful and absolute.
Because I’d realized something too late.
I had hurt her.
Too many times. Too deeply.
Each one sharper than the last.
Each one cutting deeper than I’d intended—or admitted.
And she had taken all of it.
She didn’t deserve any of it.
She never had.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
I should have listened.
The hospital came into view ahead—glass and steel glowing white against the dark skyline, a stark beacon cutting through the night.
I cut across two lanes without hesitation.
Tires screamed again as I swung into the underground garage.
The car fishtailed; I corrected just in time and slammed on the brakes.
The Lamborghini jerked to a stop—so close to the rear bumper of a silver Mercedes that I could see my reflection distorted in its paint.
An inch.
Maybe less.
If I’d been slower—It would’ve been a crash.
I didn’t think about it.
I was already moving.
Out of the car.
Engine still idling behind me as I slammed the door shut and sprinted toward the elevators.
Security recognized me instantly.
Heads dipped.
Doors opened without a word.
I didn’t take the elevator.
I took the stairs.
Two at a time.
Then three.
My lungs burned.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
Every step echoed like a countdown.
By the time I reached the private wing, my breathing was ragged, but I didn’t slow.
Didn’t stop.
I burst into the VVIP corridor and grabbed the first nurse I saw by the arm.
Not hard.
But firm enough that she froze immediately.
“Is my wife here already?” I demanded, voice tight. “Elena Orsini.”
The nurse blinked, startled.
Then pointed.
“Yes, sir. VVIP Ward 2.”
I released her and moved.
Fast.
Straight through the double doors.
And stopped dead.
Violet lay in the bed, sheets twisted around her swollen belly, her face slick with sweat and tears.
Her hands trembled as she clutched at the fabric, her breathing uneven, strained.
Paolo stood at her side, holding her hand tightly, his expression tense but controlled.
Three nurses hovered nearby.