Chapter 18
Cesare
Pain dragged me up through layers of fog. Chemical-thick darkness that clung to my consciousness, refusing to let go.
Everything hurt.
Chest. Ribs. Lungs burning with each breath like I'd inhaled broken glass.
Beeping. Steady, rhythmic. Monitors.
An antiseptic smell. Bleach and iodine and something underneath—blood, maybe.
The hospital.
Memory surfaced in fragments. Pier 76. Viktor's gun. Piero bleeding on concrete. The gunshot—
My eyes cracked open. Fluorescent lights stabbed into my skull. I squinted against them, tried to orient myself.
White ceiling tiles. An IV pole. Heart monitor.
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded through my chest—white-hot, immediate. My lungs seized. I gasped, fell back against pillows.
"Don't move."
Paola's voice cut through the haze. Her hand landed on my shoulder, gentle but firm. Dark curls falling around features I'd memorized.
Red-rimmed eyes. Exhausted. She'd been crying.
"You're okay," she said, voice tight with relief. "You're in the hospital. You had surgery. Don't try to move."
"Paola." My voice came out rough. Sandpaper on metal. "How long?"
"Almost two days. It's Friday afternoon. They kept you sedated while your lung healed."
Two days. I'd lost two days.
"Piero?"
The most important question.
Her face did something complicated. Fear and relief twisted together.
"He's alive. But Cesare, he had complications. Internal bleeding they missed initially. He went into emergency surgery last night."
I tried to sit up again. Had to see him—
The pain stopped me cold. Paola's hands kept me down.
"Stop. You'll tear your stitches."
"I need to see him."
"You will. But you just woke up. Let the doctors check you first."
"Viktor?"
"FBI custody. But his lawyers are trying to get him released on bail."
"When?"
"Maybe a week. Maybe less."
Fuck. A week and Viktor could be free. While I was laid up, useless.
The monitors beeped faster. Paola squeezed my hand.
"Don't. You need to stay calm."
Dr. Reeves appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Monti. Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got shot."
A slight smile. "Accurate assessment." She moved to the bedside, began her examination. Stethoscope cold against my chest. "Deep breath for me."
I inhaled. Pain lanced through my ribs.
"Good. Again." She checked monitors, made notes. "Your lung is healing well. The surgery was successful. But you'll need extensive recovery time."
"How long?"
"Minimum six weeks before you can resume normal activities. Three months before you're fully healed."
Three months. Impossible.
"I'll need to be mobile sooner than that."
"Mr. Monti, if you push too hard too fast, you risk permanent damage. Your lung could collapse again. You could die."
Paola's hand tightened on mine. White-knuckled. Terrified.
"You're going to follow the doctor's orders," she said. Not a request.
I looked at her. Saw the fear underneath the determination. She'd almost lost me.
"Fine," I conceded. For now.
After Dr. Reeves left, Paola and I were finally alone. She sat beside my bed, still holding my hand like she was afraid I'd disappear.
"You scared me." Her voice came out quiet, raw. "When you went down at the pier—when I saw the blood—I thought..."
She couldn't finish. Tears spilled over.
"Hey." I tugged her hand gently. "I'm here. Still alive. Still fighting."
"Because I refused to let you leave without it. I made you put your vest on — for me, for the baby."
"You disobeyed my orders by coming to the pier at all."
"I saved your life. Both count."
"Yes." I managed a slight smile. "You did. Thank you."
She laughed through tears. Messy, genuine. "You're welcome." Silence settled between us. Just breathing. Being alive together.
Time to stop being a coward about this.
"There's something I need to say."
She looked at me, waiting, green eyes still wet with tears. I'd never been good with words. With feelings. With vulnerability.
But I'd almost died. She'd almost lost me. Our baby had almost lost both parents.
"I love you." No hesitation. "I love you, Paola. Not because you're my wife or because you're carrying my child. I love you because you're you. Because you're brave and stubborn and you saved me even when I told you not to."
Her breath caught. Fresh tears fell.
"I love you too," she whispered. "I've been wanting to say it for weeks but I was scared. And then you got shot and I thought I'd never get to tell you and—"
"I'm here. You can tell me now."
"I love you, Cesare Monti. I love you so much it terrifies me."
I pulled her down—ignoring the fire in my ribs—and kissed her.
It hurt. Everything hurt.
But this was worth it.
When we broke apart, both of us were crying. Neither of us cared. She rested her forehead against mine.
"Tell me everything about Piero," I said when we'd composed ourselves. "Don't sugarcoat it."
She pulled back slightly. "The surgery last night was extensive. They found internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen. He'd been deteriorating for hours before it became critical."
"Is he going to make it?"
"The doctors say yes. But it was close. Really close."
My chest tightened. Not from the bullet wound; from imagining losing Piero.
"I need to see him."
"He's in the ICU. They won't let you up yet—you just woke up yourself."
"I don't care what they'll let me do. He's my brother. I need to see him."
Paola recognized that tone. "Okay. But we do this smart. You're in a wheelchair. You don't push yourself. The second you're in pain, we come back."
"Deal."
***`
The ICU was two floors up. Quiet. Sterile. Machines everywhere.
Piero occupied a private room at the end of the corridor. He was surrounded by monitors and tubes, IVs threading into both arms.
He looked terrible. Pale and bruised, diminished in a way I'd never seen him before.
My chest tightened.
"He's been unconscious since surgery," a nurse explained. "But stable. We expect him to wake in the next few hours."
I wheeled closer. Paola stayed back, giving us space.
"Piero." My voice came out rough. Emotional in a way I rarely allowed. "You better wake up, you bastard. I didn't take a bullet for you just so you could die from a ruptured spleen."
No response. Just the steady beep of monitors.
"I need you, brother. This empire—this family—it doesn't work without you. I don't work without you."
I wasn't good at this. Expressing feelings. Being vulnerable. But almost dying had a way of changing perspectives.
We sat in silence. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I just watched Piero breathe.
Then his eyes fluttered open.
Unfocused at first. Confused. Then they landed on me. "You look like shit," Piero rasped.
I laughed—instantly regretted it as pain shot through my ribs. "You're one to talk."
"How long was I out?"
"About twelve hours. You had us scared."
His gaze shifted to Paola. "Hey, cognata."
"Hey yourself. Stop trying to die. It's getting old."
A ghost of a smile. Then back to me. "Viktor?"
"FBI custody. For now."
"For now?"
"His lawyers are good. Might get bail."
Piero processed this. Still strategic despite the drugs. "Then we have work to do."
"We have recovery to do," I corrected. "Both of us. The family can function without us for a few weeks."
He studied me. "You're really going to rest? You?"
"Paola's making me."
"Smart woman."
"The smartest."
Silence settled. Then Piero spoke again, voice quieter. "Thank you. For coming for me. For taking that bullet."
"You're my brother. What else was I going to do? You're worth more than the empire."
The admission hung between us. The truth, raw and honest.
Piero's eyes watered. "I love you too, brother."
We didn't do this. Didn't talk about feelings. Didn't cry. But we'd almost lost each other. And life was too short to leave important things unsaid.
A soft knock at the door. Rosa Vasquez appeared—Piero's assistant for the past five years. Professional as always in her dark suit, tablet in hand.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said quietly. "But there are documents that need Mr. Piero's signature for the shipping contracts. They can wait if—"
"It's fine, Rosa," Piero said, his voice still weak. "Bring them here."
She approached carefully, set the tablet on his lap. "Just these three. I've flagged where you need to sign."
Whilst Piero reviewed the documents, Rosa glanced at me. "Mr. Monti, congratulations on your marriage. Mrs. Monti seems lovely."
"Thank you, Rosa."
I watched her carefully. At Pier 76, I'd seen her with the FBI tactical team. Wearing their gear. Moving with their agents. At the time, there'd been no time to process it—too much chaos, too much pain.
But now, watching her stand here so calmly, so professionally, playing the perfect assistant—
Something was wrong.
Why had Piero's assistant been with the FBI raid? How long had she been compromised? Was she feeding them information? Was she the leak?
I should tell Piero now. Immediately.
But he was barely conscious. Just had surgery. Nearly died. Could this wait a few hours? Until he was stronger?
Or was I making excuses because I didn't want to believe it? Rosa had been with us for twenty years. Piero trusted her completely.
After Piero signed, she collected the tablet. "I'll let you rest. Call if you need anything."
I watched her leave, every instinct screaming that something wasn't right. A nurse came in to change a dressing, shifting Paola and I to the side to give my brother privacy. We were barely out of earshot when Paola whispered, "She seems dedicated."
"Maybe too dedicated," I murmured.
"What do you mean?"
I hesitated. "At the pier. During the rescue. I saw Rosa with the FBI agents. Dressed in tactical gear. Moving with them like she belonged."
Paola's eyes widened. "You think she's—"
"I don't know what to think. But I need to find out before I tell Piero. He can't handle this right now. Not until I have proof."
"What are you going to do?"