Chapter 27 Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
Pain.
That’s the first thing that filters through the haze. Sharp, burning pain that spreads from my chest outward like wildfire, making every breath feel like I’m drowning in broken glass. I try to move, try to understand where I am, but my body feels disconnected from my mind, heavy and unresponsive.
Fragments drift in and out of focus. Beeping machines. The antiseptic smell of…hospital? Is that where I am? White ceiling tiles swimming above me. Voices, distant and muffled, like I’m hearing them from underwater.
“…collapsed lung, but we got it re-inflated…”
“…lucky the bullet missed his heart by two centimeters…”
“…full recovery, but it’ll take time…”
Doctor voices. Medical words that float around me without quite landing. I try to focus, try to piece together what happened, but my thoughts feel like scattered puzzle pieces that won’t fit together properly.
But what do I remember?
Blood. I remember blood.
Bianca screaming my name.
The courtyard. The sniper’s rifle. The sound of the bullet tearing through my chest. The pain of the bullet lodging in me.
I try to sit up, panic flooding through me as the memories crash back, but pain explodes through my torso and I fall back against the pillows with a strangled gasp.
Time becomes elastic, meaningless. Pain ebbs and flows like tides.
Dreams bleed into reality until I can’t tell which is which.
Sometimes I’m back in the courtyard, watching the bullet approach in slow motion.
Sometimes I’m in boardrooms full of men in expensive suits who want to destroy everything we’ve built.
Sometimes I’m holding Bianca while she cries, her tears mixing with blood that might be mine or might be someone else’s.
Sometimes I catch fragments of conversations in the hallway—voices I recognize mixing with ones I don’t, mentions of “Elena situation” and “Sofia Renaldi” and “never again.” The words don’t make complete sense through the medication fog.
Why is the Renaldi daughter being mentioned?
And what does Mario DeLuca’s partner have to do with any of this?
Other times, I’m aware of Bianca’s presence without fully waking. The soft sound of pages turning, her familiar scent, the warmth of her hand holding mine. She talks to me sometimes, her voice low and soothing, though I can’t always follow what she’s saying.
“…doctors say you’re healing well. Your lung is completely re-inflated now, and there’s no sign of infection…”
“…Matteo’s been handling the political fallout, but I think we’re going to be okay. The media is actually on our side for once…”
“I love you. I need you to wake up so I can tell you how much I love you…”
I want to respond. I want to tell her I love her too, but my voice won’t work and my eyes won’t open properly. All I can do is try to squeeze her hand and hope she understands.
But gradually, slowly, the fog begins to lift.
The next time I surface to full consciousness, the pain is more manageable, my thoughts clearer.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, casting everything in warm golden light.
The beeping of machines has become background noise, and I can hear the distant sounds of the city beyond the hospital walls.
And there’s Bianca.
She’s curled up in the chair beside my bed, completely absorbed in what appears to be a paperback novel.
Her dark hair is piled in a messy bun atop her head as she reads, and her brow is furrowed in concentration.
She’s wearing jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt that’s too big for her, looking more like her age and vulnerable than the dangerous woman who orchestrated the takedown of one of New York’s most notorious mob families.
The book in her hands has a shirtless man on the cover, muscled arms wrapped around a woman in a flowing dress. I have to blink several times to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.
“Seriously?” I croak, my voice rusty from disuse but audible. “Trashy romance novels?”
She jumps so hard the book flies out of her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Her blue eyes are wide with shock for exactly one second before joy floods her face with such intensity it takes my breath away.
“Alessandro!” She launches herself toward me before immediately stopping, her hands hovering over my body as if she’s afraid I’ll break. “Oh god, you’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey,” I whisper, reaching up with a hand that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds to touch her face. “Miss me?”
A wet laugh bubbles out of her. Tears spill out of her eyes, tracking down her cheeks as she carefully, gently, leans down to press her forehead against mine.
“I thought I lost you,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “When I saw you fall, when there was so much blood…I-I thought you were going to die in my arms.”
“Not that easy to get rid of me,” I tell her, though the memory of that moment—the burning in my chest, the taste of blood in my mouth, the way her face contorted with terror—makes my own eyes burn.
She laughs, but it’s shaky and wet. “The doctors said the bullet missed your heart by two centimeters. Two fucking centimeters, Alessandro.” Her eyes swim with tears and her lower lip trembles.
“But it did miss,” I point out, trying to lighten the mood despite the gravity of how close I came to dying. “And I’m here. We’re both here.”
She nods, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “We are. We made it.”
“The book,” I tease, nodding toward where it fell, wanting to change the subject to focus on something other than my near death. “Really?”
Her cheeks flush pink, and for a moment she looks exactly like the nineteen-year-old she is rather than the formidable leader she’s become.
“Don’t you judge me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything serious, but I needed something to keep my hands busy while I sat here.
The gift shop didn’t have a great selection. ”
“What’s it about?” I ask curiously.
“A duke who falls in love with a governess,” she admits, her blush deepening. “It’s completely ridiculous.”
“Sounds perfect for recovery reading,” I tell her seriously, and she laughs—a real laugh this time, bright and genuine. It warms my heart hearing it.
“I missed you so much,” she whispers, carefully taking my hand in both of hers and pressing it to her cheek. “These past three days…I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“What happened after I went down?” I assume it was a victory considering Bianca is alive.
Her expression shifts, her lips curving into a very smug smile. “We killed them all. Every Calabrese soldier in the compound, and then I put a bullet through Dominic’s forehead myself.”
The matter-of-fact way she says it should probably concern me. Instead, I feel nothing but pride and admiration. “How did you handle the federal response?”
“Carefully,” she replies, settling back into her chair but keeping hold of my hand.
“The FBI showed up expecting to arrest a bunch of gang members after a turf war. Instead, they found the surviving members of a respected New York family who had defended themselves against an unprovoked assault.” She laughs delightedly.
“And they bought that?” I ask skeptically. It sounds hard to believe.
“They bought the narrative our lawyers constructed,” she corrects with a slight smile.
“Dominic’s own evidence worked against him.
All those recordings he made, all the documentation of his trials—it painted a perfect picture of a man obsessed with revenge who finally snapped and tried to commit mass murder. ”
I study her face, noting the way her eyes light up when she talks about the political maneuvering. This isn’t just about survival anymore. It’s clear she genuinely enjoys the complex chess game of managing perception and controlling narratives.
“You did all that while I was unconscious?” I raise an eyebrow. Either they’re lying about how long I was out for, or DeLuca lawyers are worth every fucking cent.
“Matteo helped,” she admits. “But yeah, most of the strategy was mine. The voices were actually useful for once. Giuseppe provided insights into how law enforcement thinks, Sophia helped with the psychological manipulation aspects, and Matteo’s voice guided the long-term political considerations.”
“The voices,” I repeat, watching her face carefully. “How are they now?”
“Better. Much better.” She squeezes my hand. “What you taught me, about coordinating them instead of fighting them—it’s working. They’re not competing anymore, they’re collaborating. It’s like having a team of expert consultants in my head.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering the question seriously as she twirls a piece of hair around a slim finger. When she answers, her voice carries absolute certainty.
“I’m more than okay with it. For the first time in my life, I feel complete. Like all the different parts of who I am are finally working together instead of fighting each other.” She meets my gaze directly. “I know what I’m capable of now, and it doesn’t scare me anymore.”
“It doesn’t scare me either,” I tell her honestly. “It makes me proud.”
Her smile is radiant, transforming her entire face. “I love you,” she says simply. “More than I ever thought it was possible to love someone. When I thought I might lose you…”
“You’re not going to lose me,” I interrupt firmly, pressing a finger against her lips. “It’ll take more than a fucking Calabrese sniper to keep me away from you.”
She smiles. “Promise?”
“I promise.” And I mean it.
She leans down then, carefully avoiding my injuries, and kisses me with a gentleness that gradually builds into something deeper, more desperate.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and I can see desire mixing with relief in her eyes.
Her gaze tracks to my heart monitor which is beeping loudly due to an elevated heart rate. She chuckles.
“When you’re better,” she whispers against my lips, “I’m going to show you exactly how much I missed you.”
“Looking forward to it,” I murmur back, already anticipating our reunion despite the pain medication making everything fuzzy around the edges.
“But for now,” she continues, pulling back slightly to fix me with a haughty DeLuca glare, “you need to rest and heal. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agree, though I’m already fighting to stay awake. The conversation has exhausted me more than I expected.
As consciousness starts to slip away again, I hear her settle back into her chair, the soft sound of pages turning as she returns to her ridiculous romance novel. The last thing I’m aware of is her hand in mine, warm and solid and real, anchoring me to the world of the living.
I drift off with a smile on my face, knowing that when I wake up again, she’ll still be there. She’ll always be there.
And together, there’s nothing we can’t survive.