Chapter Eighteen #3
"Shut up," Roselia wept, ripping off her blazer and pressing it brutally hard against the center of his chest. "Keep your eyes open, Enzo! Do not close your eyes!"
But Enzo’s gaze drifted slowly toward the sky, the vibrant, chaotic life fading rapidly from his eyes as the sirens screamed closer.
***
The underground medical wing of the Falco estate had been transformed into a suffocating purgatory of blood, antiseptic, and apocalyptic wrath.
When the extraction team had finally secured the alley, they had brought the broken pieces of their family back to the stronghold.
The combined forces of the Falco syndicate and the Bratva had locked down the entire city of Naples.
Not a single car, boat, or plane was leaving the perimeter without facing heavily armed soldiers.
The steel doors of Trauma Bay 1 were sealed shut. Enzo had been in surgery for six agonizing hours.
In the sterile, white corridor outside, the grief was a living, breathing entity.
Roselia sat on the cold linoleum floor, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hands still coated in Enzo’s dried blood.
She was utterly inconsolable. The fierce, untouchable assassin had crumbled.
Enzo was the baby. He was the charming, laughing light of the family.
He wasn't supposed to take the bullet. He was supposed to be safe behind the impenetrable walls his older brothers had built.
Lorenzo sat on the floor beside her. He had shed his suit jacket, his face pale and drawn tight with a terrifying, hollow dread.
He wrapped his arms tightly around Roselia, pulling her into his chest. He didn't offer empty platitudes.
He couldn't. He simply held her as she sobbed, burying his face in her dark hair, his own tears tracking silently down his face as he prayed to a God he hadn't spoken to in years to spare his youngest brother.
A few feet away, Raisa sat on a hard plastic chair. A doctor had stitched the deep, bloody gash across her temple, but she had refused painkillers. She sat rigidly straight, her sea-green eyes dead, staring blankly at the surgical doors.
She was fine. She had a few cuts and bruises. But the guilt was tearing her soul into jagged, bloody pieces. He had taken the blast for her. Enzo had thrown himself in front of a shotgun to save her life.
Marco paced the length of the corridor like a caged, rabid wolf. He stopped in front of Raisa, dropping to his knees and taking her trembling hands in his.
"This is not your fault," Marco stated, his voice a low, fierce rumble, reading the self-hatred in his wife's eyes. He kissed her bloody knuckles. "Do you hear me, Raisa? He made a choice. He protected his family. You did not pull that trigger."
Raisa let out a shattered, broken sob, collapsing forward against Marco’s shoulder. Marco wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, his jaw clenching as he stared fiercely at the surgical doors, terrified that he was about to lose the brother he had protected his entire life.
At the far end of the hall, Salvatore Falco and Sergei Voronin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Casimir Valente.
"They were outmanned," Casimir reported, his voice devoid of emotion. "It was a coalition. Mercenaries funded by the remnants of the Calabrian factions and the Contarini loyalists trying to collect on old bounties."
Salvatore’s eyes were black voids of pure murder. He looked at Sergei, the Russian patriarch whose daughter had nearly been slaughtered in the crossfire.
"Mobilize the entire alliance," Salvatore ordered, his voice echoing with the terrifying, final judgment of a king going to war. "I don't care if they are hiding in churches or police stations. We do not stop until every single soul involved in this ambush is bleeding on the concrete."
Before Sergei could nod his agreement, the steel doors of Trauma Bay 1 hissed open.
The lead trauma surgeon stepped out into the corridor. His scrubs were entirely soaked in blood. He pulled off his surgical mask, his face gray and exhausted.
Renzo scrambled to his feet, pulling Roselia up with him. Marco stood, keeping a protective arm around Raisa. The entire hallway held its collective breath, staring at the doctor.
"We removed the buckshot," the surgeon began, his voice trembling slightly under the weight of the terrifying men staring at him. "We stopped the internal hemorrhaging in his liver and repaired the collapsed lung."
"Is he alive?" Renzo demanded, his voice cracking.
The surgeon looked at the Don, his eyes filled with a grim, terrible sorrow. "He is alive for now, Don Falco. But the damage to his chest cavity was catastrophic. He has lost a massive amount of blood, and his heart stopped twice on the table. He is in a medically induced coma."
Roselia let out a sharp, devastated cry, burying her face against Renzo’s chest.
"I am so sorry," the surgeon whispered, looking down at his bloody hands. "We have done everything medical science allows. But you need to prepare yourselves. The doctors do not have much hope that he will survive the night."