Chapter 30 #2
The last two men had stepped out from behind the rusted railings, thinking they had won.
I raised the Glock and fired twice more—clean, precise shots.
Both dropped.
I scrambled back to Vincenzo.
He lay sprawled on the filthy concrete, blood pooling beneath him in a widening crimson lake.
It soaked his shirt, his jacket, his hair.
Blood streaked down his face and neck, coating his hands where he had tried to hold pressure on his wounds.
His entire body was drenched in it.
When he had thrown himself over me, the warm, sticky blood had transferred to my clothes and skin as well.
I was now covered in it—my hands, my torn shirt, my arms—all slick and red with his blood.
I dropped to my knees beside him, heart hammering.
“Vincenzo, why the hell did you do that?” My voice cracked. “I could have taken them out...”
“No...” His breathing was shallow, barely there, each word a struggle.
His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open.
“No, you... you wouldn’t have made it...”
I tapped his cheek urgently.
“Vincenzo, stay with me! You are not dying on me. Do you hear me? Never!”
His eyes opened again, glassy and unfocused.
A weak, pained smile touched his lips.
“I took... all the bullets for you,” he whispered. “It satisfies me... that I could sacrifice my life... for yours.”
“Vincenzo, please... don’t do this. Don’t die.”
“I deserve it,” he murmured, his eyelids drifting shut.
Just then, the screech of several cars braking hard echoed through the warehouse.
Footsteps thundered in.
Renzo led the team.
They moved with military precision.
Renzo’s face paled the moment he saw Vincenzo lying motionless in a pool of blood, eyes closed, chest barely rising.
“Fuck—get him up! Pressure on the wounds, now!” he barked.
Two men immediately dropped beside Vincenzo, pressing hard on the multiple bullet holes while a third prepared to lift him.
Renzo himself knelt, checking for a pulse, his movements fast and professional, but the urgency in his voice betrayed his fear.
“He’s still breathing—barely. Move! Hospital, now!”
They lifted Vincenzo’s limp body with careful speed and rushed him toward the waiting vehicles.
Renzo spun back to me.
His eyes widened when he saw me kneeling there, covered head to toe in Vincenzo’s blood, frozen in shock.
“Elena—” His voice was tight with worry.
He crossed the distance in three strides, gently but firmly pulling me to my feet. “We have to go. Now.”
He wrapped a strong arm around my shoulders, supporting my weight as my legs threatened to give out.
The urgency in his grip was unmistakable—he half-guided, half-carried me toward the nearest car while shouting orders to the others.
“Get her in the back! Drive fast. She’s in shock.”
Inside the car, Renzo sat beside me, his hand never leaving my arm, offering silent comfort as the vehicle sped through the streets toward the hospital where my son waited in the ICU.
His jaw was clenched, eyes flicking between me and the road ahead, clearly torn between staying with me and the dying man they were rushing to save.
The rest of the drive passed in heavy silence, thick with panic and unspoken fear.
We reached the hospital garage in record time.
The car slowed, tires whispering against the concrete before coming to a smooth stop.
The engine died with a final, low rumble, and silence rushed in to claim the space.
Renzo moved instantly.
He helped me out of the car with one strong arm while simultaneously barking orders over his shoulder.
“Get him on the stretcher—now! Multiple gunshot wounds, left side and back. Keep pressure on the bleeds. Move!”
Nurses and orderlies were already waiting.
They swarmed the second car, carefully transferring Vincenzo’s limp, blood-soaked body onto the stretcher with practiced urgency.
Renzo never took his eyes off me as he guided me forward, his grip firm and protective.
Cold hospital air brushed against my skin the moment we stepped inside the sterile ward.
Renzo walked beside me—close, shielding, never equal.
His presence was a wall between me and the chaos.
Security recognized him at once.
Doors slid open without question.
Guards straightened and stepped aside, their postures shifting from alertness to silent compliance—respect and fear mixing in their quick nods.
Renzo issued commands in a low, controlled voice as we moved through the corridors.
“Elevator cleared.”
“Floor secure.”
“No one on this wing except medical staff.”
No shouting.
No panic.
Just quiet, absolute authority.
Yet through every order, his hand never left my arm.
Steady. Unwavering.
“I just want to see my son,” I whispered, voice raw.
“And that’s exactly where I’m taking you,” he replied, guiding me forward without hesitation.
He led me through the maze of gleaming hallways and hushed wards until we reached the ICU doors.
The moment they hissed open, the world narrowed to the glass panel ahead.
Behind it lay everything I had been fighting to reach.
My breath hitched.
There, bathed in the soft blue glow of monitors and gentle machines, was my child.
The incubator stood like a fragile fortress.
Small.
Encased in wires and quiet beeps.
Inside, my son’s tiny chest rose and fell beneath the delicate support of the CPAP mask—each assisted breath fragile, determined, real.
Alive.
My legs buckled instantly.
The last of my strength drained away in one overwhelming rush.
Renzo caught me before I could collapse, his arm wrapping around my waist with firm, grounding strength.
“Easy. I’ve got you.”
Tears blurred my vision.
The fear I had been holding back surged forward—sharp and suffocating.
What if Vincenzo didn’t make it?
What if he died tonight after throwing himself over me?
What if my son grew up without a father because the man who had broken me had finally chosen to save me?
“I need to know if Vincenzo will be fine...” My voice cracked. “Please go check for me.”
Renzo hesitated, his jaw tight, clearly torn between staying with me and obeying.
He didn’t want to leave me alone.
“Go,” I pleaded softly. “Please.”
Only then did he release me, nodding once before striding away with swift, purposeful steps.
I took a slow step forward.
Then another.
My palm pressed against the cool glass, warm skin meeting cold separation.
I spread my fingers wider, as though I could reach through and touch him.
My son.
So small it hurt to look at him.
So fragile it terrified me.
But perfect.
I stood with my forehead pressed to the observation window, palms flat against the glass, staring at the tiny figure inside the incubator.
A soft knit cap covered his head, slipping slightly.
His minuscule chest rose and fell in a rhythm so delicate the entire world seemed to hinge on it continuing.
One tiny fist drifted near his cheek—opened, closed, opened again.
Slow.
Persistent.
As if even now he was reaching for something just beyond his grasp.
The sight of him fighting, simply existing, shattered something deep inside me.
A single tear slipped down my cheek, warm against my chilled skin.
It traced a slow path before dropping onto the windowsill with the softest sound.
I didn’t wipe it away.
I drew in a shaky breath and forced my trembling legs to carry me to the nearest chair.
Strength had abandoned me completely.
Too many emotions crashed through my chest at once—relief for my son, terror for Vincenzo, exhaustion that went bone-deep.
I sank down and buried my face in my palms, eyes squeezed shut.
My mind kept circling back to Vincenzo.
Would Renzo come running back any second with the news that he was gone?
I didn’t think I could survive hearing those words.
Yes, he had hurt me—destroyed pieces of me I might never recover—but I didn’t want him dead.
Not like this.
Not after he had thrown himself over me and taken those bullets.
Time blurred. Minutes? Hours?
I couldn’t tell anymore.
I only knew I kept stealing glances toward the incubator, just enough to remind myself my son was still fighting.
Each tiny rise and fall of his chest felt like a quiet victory.
A small rebellion against the freezing room where we had both been condemned during labor.
Every few moments my eyes flicked back to the corridor, waiting for Renzo to appear with news—good or devastating, I had no way of knowing.
The uncertainty twisted like a knife in my gut.
Before the fear could swallow me whole, footsteps approached.
Soft. Measured. Controlled.
I lifted my head.
A senior nurse stood at the entrance of the alcove, dressed in pale blue scrubs.
Her expression was calm, warm, but something in her eyes made my chest tighten with dread.
I could already imagine the words forming on her lips.
Vincenzo is dead.
“Mrs. Orsini?” she said gently.
“Tell me,” I rasped, my voice hoarse and trembling. “Is he alive?”
The nurse’s face softened further, a touch of wry humor warming her professional tone.
“He’s alive. Against all odds, actually.”
I let out a broken breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Seven shots to the back and one to the ribs should have killed most men,” she continued, stepping closer.
“But the bullets mostly missed vital organs.”
“One grazed his lung, another clipped a rib, but nothing hit the heart or major arteries directly. He lost a lot of blood, and we had to repair some internal damage, but he’s stabilizing now.”
“He’s in recovery, sedated and monitored closely. It’s going to be a long road, but he’s fighting.”
Relief crashed over me so hard my shoulders sagged.
I pressed a hand to my mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to escape.
The nurse offered a small, understanding smile.
“He’s tough. Stubborn, even. That helped tonight.”
She moved with calm precision to the incubator’s access panel, her gloved fingers adjusting a tiny flow valve with ease, the kind of motion honed over years of repetition.
Then she pressed her stethoscope gently against the clear dome, listening to the minuscule, insistent rise and fall of my son’s chest.