Chapter 62
sixty-two
. . .
Hospitals were designed to make powerful men feel small, to give dying men hope, and sometimes to steal lives, shift blame with a simple: ‘I’m sorry, we tried everything.’
Tonight, though, I needed to be there. The doors slid open and immediately the smell of smoke, oil, and blood morphed into a clinical, antiseptic cleanliness. White walls, white floors, white lights, so bright they’d give a blind man sight.
Cursing, I walked further into the space, my men falling back automatically, forming distance without instruction. They knew better than to crowd me right now, understanding the difference between my usual wrath and this quieter, more dangerous thing clawing at my chest.
“Mr. Rossi?” A nurse looked up from the reception desk before I could speak. “Miss Sharma is still in surgery,” she explained, her voice calm, practiced. “You can wait–”
I was already moving before she finished.
The waiting area was a glass box full of strangers pretending not to look at me.
My blood stained clothes might seem inconsequential in a place like this but it was the open rage I wore on my face that had their gazes sliding away the second they caught my eyes.
Time stretched, turning mere minutes into hours. I couldn’t sit, the earlier agitation lending my legs a restlessness and I paced the length of the corridor, every step echoing the same thought through my head.
She took a bullet meant for me.
I’d lived my life anticipating violence, reading with the accuracy of a skilled mathematician, calculating angles, exists, risks, timing and I always saw the shot.
Except that one.
Because I let my usual vigilance slip. That was why I never allowed a weakness into my life, my circle, my world. Otherwise, I’d have to watch her and I didn’t.
The doors finally parted with a sterile sigh, and a doctor stepped out, mask hanging loose around his neck.
Slight, composed, his dark hair threaded neatly with silver temples, his sharp eyes landed on me, paused a fraction too long, then dipped in something that might’ve been professional caution or recognition.
“Mr. Rossi.” His accent carried the soft precision of Japan, consonants placed carefully, vowels unhurried.
He inclined his head slightly, hands folding into the sleeves of his white coat.
“I am Doctor Takahashi. Miss Sharma is stable.” The word hung between us, fragile as glass.
“She’s a lucky girl, the bullet missed vital organs by a thumbnail, but she lost a lot of blood. ”
My shoulders slackened an inch, my lungs dragging in air that felt suddenly heavy, almost foreign. She’d wake. She’d breathe. She’d open her eyes and look at me again. “Can I see her?”
Those dark eyes assessed me again, dipping my brows in a frown. If he felt the weight of my name, the history stitched into it, he showed no fear, only a quiet intensity that brushed against something instinctive in me. I almost questioned if he really was her doctor.
“She’s still sedated for now and when she wakes, she will need stress-free rest. Can you guarantee that, Mr. Rossi?”
The fuck! I clenched my fist to stop from paralyzing a doctor in the middle of a busy hospital corridor. “Where is she?” I gritted instead.
“Follow me.” He gave a small nod, reseated his mask over his mouth, turned and walked away.
Tipping my chin at Rogan, I silently instructed him to leave and followed the doctor down another quiet corridor until he stopped at a door and gestured for me to precede him.
I paused just inside the doorway, taking in the room.
Ishika lay on her back, machines breathing for her in soft, steady sounds.
I neared the bed and stared down at her.
The main injury hidden beneath the hospital gown, I noticed her bandaged arm, skin pale against the sheets and a bruise blooming at her temple.
I’d faced guns without blinking, watched men beg, given orders that ended lives with a nod. Yet none of that prepared me for the sight of her like this.
Still. Silent. Unaware of her hold on me. I stepped closer, my hand hovering over hers briefly before I touched her, afraid she might vanish if I wasn’t careful. When my fingers finally closed around her hand, it was warm.
“You’re impossible, little fox,” I murmured. “Do you know that?”
The anger returned in a flash. Instinctive, familiar, rising fast and aimed at everything. The man who pulled the trigger. The men who let him get that close. Myself.
“You don’t get to do that,” I whispered, leaning closer.
“You don’t get to decide my life is worth more than yours.
” My voice shook despite my effort to keep it steady.
“I brought you there because I wanted you to leave,” I admitted.
“I thought if you saw enough of this world, you’d walk away on your own.
” I looked at her face. Peaceful now, thick lashes resting against her cheeks.
“And instead, you stepped in front of a goddamn bullet.” My thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles.
“I don’t know how to protect someone like you.
You don’t listen. You don’t run. You don’t fear the right things.
” My throat tightened. “And now I don’t know how to keep you safe. From me.”
Abruptly, I straightened when I realized my hand was shaking and forced it to still, realizing this was where men like me pulled back, where we hardened again, where we turned vulnerability into something tenacious just to survive.
Instead, I sat down, the chair scraping softly against the floor, loud in the quiet room. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, still holding her hand.
“They’ll pay, little fox,” I vowed. “Everyone involved. I won’t let this touch you again.
” I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, wondering about the exact moment my heart committed to this woman.
“You proved me wrong, didn’t you?” I let out a soft laugh, remembering her threat the first time I fucked her mouth.
“One day, I’ll get even, Mr. Rossi and you will fall for me. Hard.”
Fuck, she’d had me by the balls since day one.
Slowly, I shook my head. “You saved me,” I muttered.
“And I hate that I needed saving.” I bowed my head, resting my forehead against the edge of the bed, close enough to feel her warmth.
“But when you wake up, you don’t get to leave.
Not after this. Not after you made yourself the one thing I can’t replace. ”
The machines continued their calm, indifferent rhythm. And for the first time in a very long life built on violence and control, I stayed exactly where I was, waiting, helpless, and exposed. For someone else to wake and decide what I became next.
A soft sound had me lifting my head to look over my shoulder. Dr. Takahashi stood just inside the open door, arms folded across his chest, mask in place, watching me.
I frowned. “I’m not leaving,” the words came out on a tight-lipped scowl.
He regarded me for a measured second before stepping further into the room and closing the door with quiet finality. He checked the monitors without hurry, studied the readings, then looked at Ishika as though confirming something privately before turning his attention back to me.
“She remains stable.” A slight pause followed. “However, there’s additional information you should be aware of.”
My spine stiffened. “What.”
“Your girlfriend is pregnant.” His voice did not soften. “The trauma has not compromised the pregnancy. At present, both are stable.”
Girlfriend. Pregnant
The words sounded foreign in my head, and I bit down the sarcastic laugh threatening to spill, remembering Ishika’s words.
“Legacy? One of you is enough to bring the world to its knees, I can’t imagine what more of you would do.”
I stared at her, at the faint rise beneath the hospital blanket, trying to reconcile the image of her stepping in front of a bullet with the reality of what he’d just said.
While I was dragging her through meetings, blood and the quiet war that followed my name, she was carrying something that belonged to both of us.
“You’re certain,” I asked, my voice lower now, stripped of its earlier edge.
“Yes.” His gaze did not waver. “We confirmed it twice.”
I let the knowledge settle fully this time instead of pushing it away. A child. Mine. Ours. The future I’d never permitted myself to consider now breathing quietly in a hospital bed after nearly being erased before I even knew it existed.
Dr. Takahashi adjusted the IV line with careful precision before speaking again. “When she regains consciousness, her environment will be critical. Emotional stability, rest, physical security, minimal disruption. The body heals more effectively when the mind is not expecting chaos.”
A humorless breath left me at that. “You’re asking the wrong man for calm,” I said quietly, my eyes still fixed on her. “Violence anticipates me.”
“I am not asking,” he replied. “I am informing you.”
I looked at him, frowning. “She will not be returning to whatever circumstances led to this,” I added, my jaw tightening. “Anyone involved will be removed.”
“And afterward? Recovery requires more than revenge.”
I didn’t miss it. The shift beneath the surface, the subtle evaluation. “Do you always take this much interest in the wellbeing of all your patients?”
“I do, Mr. Rossi.”
I studied his blank expression a moment longer, seeing nothing but honesty. “She stays with me. Under my protection. Where I can control who breathes near her.”
“And the child?” His eyes flicked briefly toward her abdomen before returning to my face.
“No one touches what’s mine. Not her. Not my blood.”
“Protection can mean many things.”
“It means no one gets close enough to try again.”
There was a subtle change in his expression. More assessment than disapproval. “And if the threat is proximity itself?”
My eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“You carry influence. Influence attracts opposition. Attention. Enemies who will analyze differently now that there is more to leverage.”
I held his gaze. “Then they will learn.”
“Perhaps.” His hands folded neatly in front of him. “But pregnancy alters risk tolerance. For some women, knowledge of danger changes their choices.”
“She doesn’t run,” I said immediately.
His eyes sharpened. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Another quiet pause before he said, “then when she wakes it would be wise to discuss her future in full honesty. Including the realities that accompany your protection.”
I didn’t like the phrasing. “My protection is the reality.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Of course.” But there was something in the way he said it that irritated me. “I will ensure she is monitored closely overnight,” he added, stepping back toward the door. “Rest would benefit you as well, Mr. Rossi.”
“I don’t need rest.”
“No,” he agreed. “You need clarity. Maybe a meal and shower might help.”
Our eyes held for a second longer, and in that moment, I understood that he was not merely treating a patient, he was measuring the man standing at her bedside. The door opened quietly behind him as he left, sealing the room again.
“Looks like everyone’s a critic,” I muttered, glancing down at my blood stained clothes, the smell of smoke and gunpowder suddenly filling my nostrils. Maybe he was right.