Chapter 15
Dante
The doctor is the first to move while the rest of us remain frozen, too far gone to act.
He steps forward cautiously, eyes flicking to mine, and stops just short of reaching for her.
“Sir…”
His voice carries a professional edge, firm but held back like he’s weighing every word.
“I need you to lift her. Carefully. Take her to the bed. We’re losing time, and it might be critical.”
That’s what pulls me out of the fog.
I rise with Harlow in my arms, careful not to jolt her, not to make anything worse than it already is.
The bathroom is a fucking mess. Blood on my hands, smeared across my suit, soaking into the tile.
Her blood.
I’ve seen her hurt before. And even once is too fucking many. I never want to see her like this again.
Not in this life. Not ever.
My jaw locks as I carry her out, moving with control I barely feel. The bedroom light is already on, too bright for what’s unfolding. I lower her onto the bed with care, hands steady even as the rest of me isn’t.
Behind us, blood marks the floor in a trail I can’t ignore. She’s losing too much. Too fast.
“Sir… if you’ll allow me, I need to begin,”
the doctor says, tension tightening every word.
Only then do I realize I’m still standing at the edge of the bed, clutching her hand like a lifeline. I haven’t moved. I’m in the way. Blocking him. Blocking everyone.
Slowly, I step back.
Leonardo stands beside me now, face rigid, his jaw clenched.
“What are you doing here? How did you know about Harlow?”
“You called me,”
he says simply.
“And I brought the doctor upstairs.”
Everything’s a blur. I thought I’d dialled the doctor directly, but it must’ve been Leonardo. It doesn’t matter. The doctor’s here. He’s treating her. That’s the only thing I give a damn about.
Giovanni enters next, silent, his presence heavy.
We’re all watching her now. None of us speaks, but we wear the same expression…
Fear.
And fury.
Fury directed at the man who did this. The one responsible for reducing her to this.
My jaw tightens, vision narrowing. I draw in a breath, though there’s nothing calm about what’s building beneath it.
He’s in my basement. Chained like the animal he is. Surrounded by my men, who won’t let him so much as breathe without my say so.
His time is coming.
But right now, the only thing that deserves my attention is my wife.
I watch as the doctor assesses her injuries, methodical and silent. I can’t think straight. My head’s a fucking mess.
What the hell did he do to her? What has she been through?
I won’t let the darkness win. Not hers. Not mine. Not his.
I know he didn’t touch her sexually, at least that’s what the gynaecologist confirmed. The rape kit came back clean.
But I still don’t know what else he did.
What he said.
What he made her believe.
“She requires sutures,”
the doctor says.
“The laceration on her arm is deep, she’s lost a significant amount of blood. Too much. We’ll need to prepare for a transfusion. She also sustained a head injury, a severe blow. She’s concussed, and the gash on her forehead will need stitching as well.”
I can’t breathe.
Every word adds another weight to my chest. Stitches. Blood. Concussion.
“Do we need to donate blood, or how does this shit work?”
Enzo growls, eyes locked on the doctor.
“Do you have what she needs?”
“She’s O negative,”
he says, already snapping on fresh gloves.
“Universal donor. It means she can only receive O negative. It’s rare. We don’t have enough in stock, not here.”
“Fuck,”
Enzo mutters, and that’s when I realize they’re all here, him, Niccolò, Darion, Michael. Standing by the wall like fucking statues. I don’t even know when they walked in. I didn’t hear the door. I didn’t hear anything but her fucking blood on the tiles.
I grit my teeth.
I don’t want them here.
Harlow wouldn’t want them to see her like this either, or maybe she doesn’t care anymore. Maybe she’s too far gone to care. But they’re her family. And they’re not leaving even if I told them to get the fuck out.
Enzo stands near the door, glaring at everyone like he’s seconds from throwing someone through a wall just to release pressure.
Niccolò leans against the dresser, arms crossed, his usual smirk nowhere in sight, replaced by something sharper and heavier.
Darion’s jaw is clenched tight, his expression unreadable, but the way his hand keeps flexing at his side gives him away.
Michael hasn’t moved an inch, he stands like a statue, eyes locked on the bed, fists at his sides.
And between them all, Giovanni paces.
He runs both hands through his hair, stops at the edge of the bed to look at Harlow, then turns and paces again like the sight is physically cutting into him.
“Blood,”
Giovanni mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, his pacing erratic.
“I’m her father, and I didn’t even know her blood type. Goddamn it, I don’t know a thing about her.”
Michael doesn’t lift his head. His voice is clipped.
“That much is clear, considering you’ve been absent every fucking year of her life.”
Giovanni turns, slowly. His stare lands on Michael like the cocking of a gun. But he meets it without blinking, eyes narrowing, unshaken. The tension thickens, palpable, coiled, seconds from snapping.
Darion steps in, his voice smooth but lethal.
“Spare us the family reckoning. If you want to measure guilt and power, do it somewhere else. Right now, the only thing that warrants attention is the woman bleeding out on that bed.”
The doctor glances at me, raising his voice just enough to cut through the noise.
“I need to test everyone. The fastest option is a rapid blood typing kit, it’ll tell us who’s a match within minutes. If we find one, I’ll collect the units into proper bags with anticoagulants and begin transfusion through IV.”
“Do it.”
Just then, a woman enters, wheeling in a tray loaded with supplies, testing kits, swabs, sealed vials. She doesn’t look at me. She’s focused, professional.
I give her a sharp look, questioning. Where the fuck did she come from?
The doctor catches it.
“She’s with me. I called her in, I need assistance. She’s competent and discreet. I vouch for her.”
I nod once, my jaw tight.
He starts testing us one by one, quick finger pricks onto cards. The reagents react fast, but the answers are all the same.
Niccolò.
“Not a match.”
Darion.
“Not a match.”
Enzo.
“Not a match.”
“Jesus Christ,”
Enzo mutters.
“Fuck,”
I hiss under my breath. My stomach coils tighter with every failure.
“What about Mattia?”
“He’s being tested downstairs,”
Mario says from behind me. He’s been here the whole time. Christ.
“Test everyone,”
I say, voice clipped and cold.
“Every person under this roof, staff, security, I don’t care who you start with. Line them up.”
Mario doesn’t hesitate. He’s gone before I finish the sentence.
The doctor keeps working. I don’t even know who I’m hoping for anymore. Her father? One of her brothers? Me?
I shove out my arm. He takes my blood, drops it on the card, swirls it.
“No.”
It’s a quiet word. But it slams through me like a bullet.
“No?”
“You’re not a match.”
“Keep going.”
As the words leave my mouth, Elena and Sofia step into the room. It’s already too crowded.
“Get out,”
I bark, at the men.
Niccolò, Darion, Enzo, Michael, too many bodies, too much tension. I need them gone. I don’t have the patience for posturing or silence.
Let the girls be tested. Everyone else can get the fuck out.
I catch the way Sofia flinches at my outburst, her shoulders stiffening as she stares at Harlow, silent tears trailing down her face.
Elena remains still, expression composed, but I see the crack beneath the calm.
Leonardo steps in closer to her, a subtle shift, positioning himself between us. His stare meets mine, sharp, unblinking, a silent warning.
But he doesn’t speak.
Good. He says one word out of line, and I’ll put a bullet in his shoulder without a second thought.
I can’t sit still. My pacing starts again, rough and restless. I feel caged. Coiled. Seconds from snapping. One breath away from burning this house to the ground if that’s what it takes to bring her back.
The doctor keeps checking Harlow’s vitals. She’s pale. Unmoving.
No matches.
No matches.
No fucking matches.
My throat burns. My hands shake.
“We’re running out of time,”
the doctor says.
“Her blood pressure is already dangerously low. If we don’t stabilize her soon…”
“Don’t you fucking say it.”
My voice cracks like a whip.
“Just keep testing. Keep fucking going.”
The door creaks, and Mario steps back in. He doesn’t even need to speak.
“No one’s a match,”
he says anyway, confirming the worst.
I roar, “Fuck!”
so loud my voice cracks.
My pulse is out of control. My thoughts a mess of rage and fear and helplessness.
“Go!”
I snarl.
“Go find someone. Go door to fucking door in this city if you have to. I don’t care how. Just find me a goddamn donor, now!”
I’m halfway to putting my fist through the wall when it hits me.
Wait.
There is someone else.
“There’s one more person in this house,” I say.
Everyone looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
My eyes lock with Leonardo.
“Luka. He’s in the east wing.”
Leonardo doesn’t hesitate. He rushes out of the room. The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
The doctor’s hands move steadily, cleaning the wounds. Prepping her forehead. Telling me time is running out without saying the words.
Minutes later, the door swings open. Leonardo strides in, gripping Luka by the wrist.
The boy doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t resist. His chin is high, his steps steady. He scans the room, taking everything in with sharp eyes.
He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but when his gaze lands on Harlow, something shifts.
His expression tightens.
There’s no fear. No hesitation.
Just a strange, quiet resolve, like he’s ready to help, like he gives a damn. Which is impossible. He doesn’t even know her.
Leonardo doesn’t speak. Just looks at me, then at the doctor.
“He’s a match,”
I say before he can open his mouth, the words leaving me low and disbelieving as I stare at the boy.
Leonardo gives a single nod. Luka’s hand is still in his, but he doesn’t flinch. His chin stays lifted.
He’s a fucking match.