Chapter Twenty-Two LEO
Hospitals smelled wrong. Too sterile. Too clean in the way places became when people were constantly dying inside them.
Bleach. Antiseptic. Artificial lemon. Underneath it all lingered the faint metallic scent of sickness, impossible to fully erase.
Human weakness soaked into the walls no matter how expensive the private wing was.
The elevator climbed in silence toward the top floor while the city glittered beyond the glass behind me, drowned in rain and midnight haze.
My reflection stared back from the mirrored walls of the elevator: black suit, dark tie loosened at the throat, tattoos peeking from beneath expensive cuffs.
A predator in a place built to preserve dying men.
The antidote rested inside my coat pocket. Small glass vial. Clear liquid. Worth more than most people’s lives.
My chemist spent months perfecting it after I designed the poison itself. The compound was elegant. Slow. Cruel. It destroyed from the inside out while keeping the victim lucid enough to feel every stage of their body betraying them.
Lorenzo Ventura should’ve been dead already. The fact he wasn’t was because of me.
The elevator doors slid open. Two of my men stood outside the hospital suite in dark suits, hands folded neatly in front of them. Neither looked comfortable surrounded by nurses and polished marble floors.
“Boss.”
I acknowledged them with a slight nod and walked forward. The private wing was silent except for the distant hum of machines and muted footsteps behind closed doors. Soft yellow lighting reflected off marble floors. Wealth disguised suffering better than most places.
Room 1907. I stopped outside the door for a second. Not because I hesitated. Because Chiara’s face flashed through my mind unexpectedly. Blue eyes filled with tears. That broken voice whispering. Papa’s going to hurt them because of me.
The memory sat badly in my chest. I pushed the door open. Warm air rolled toward me first. Humid. Sour. Then came Lorenzo Ventura. He looked fucking disgusting. The poison had hollowed him out fast.
His skin carried that faint gray-green undertone that came before organs started shutting down permanently.
Sweat drenched the collar of his expensive silk robe despite the cool room.
Dark circles bruised the flesh beneath his eyes.
His once-heavy body looked swollen in some places and skeletal in others, like death couldn’t decide what parts of him to take first. But his eyes… Those remained vicious.
They snapped toward me, full of hatred sharp enough to cut through morphine.
“Leo Moretti,” Lorenzo rasped from the hospital bed. “The fucking serpent himself.”
His voice sounded shredded. Good. I quietly shut the door behind me.
The monitor beside his bed beeped steadily, though the rhythm stuttered every few seconds whenever pain twisted through him. An oxygen tube rested beneath his nose. IV lines disappeared beneath thin hospital blankets.
He looked weak. I expected satisfaction. Instead, disappointment spread slowly through me.
“You look worse,” I said calmly.
Lorenzo coughed out a laugh that turned wet halfway through. “Go fuck yourself.”
I crossed the room slowly, taking my time. Rain hammered softly against the giant windows overlooking the city below. Manhattan looked blurred tonight. Smudged gold lights drowning beneath black clouds.
The world continued spinning while Lorenzo Ventura rotted alive in a hospital bed. Funny how little the city cared.
“You came alone?” he asked suspiciously.
“Do I need protection from a dying man?” I asked.
“Cocky prick,” Lorenzo hissed. I glanced toward the untouched tray of food beside his bed. Soup gone cold. Bread hardening at the edges. Water untouched.
“Nurses having trouble feeding you?” I asked.
“They keep trying.”
“Maybe they should poison it. Might improve the taste,” I suggested.
A bitter grin tugged weakly at Lorenzo’s mouth before another wave of pain visibly hit him. His fingers clenched against the sheets hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
Interesting. The poison was accelerating tonight. I reached into my coat pocket slowly. Lorenzo’s eyes followed the movement. Fear. Real fear this time. When I pulled the glass vial free, his breathing visibly changed.
“What’s that?” he asked carefully.
“The antidote.”
Silence swallowed the room whole. Rain battered the windows harder. The old man stared at the vial like it was God himself standing beside his bed. Then his expression twisted.
“So it’s true,” he whispered hoarsely. “You really poisoned me.”
I rolled the vial between my fingers, watching the clear liquid catch the dim hospital lights. “You should’ve believed me the first time.”
“You arrogant fucking animal…” he said, interrupted by a violent coughing fit.
“Still talking like you’re in control.” I looked at him flatly. “Interesting.”
Lorenzo shifted painfully against the pillows. Every movement clearly hurt now. Good.
“You came to save me?” he asked after a long pause.
“I came because Chiara cried for you,” I told him.
Something ugly crossed his face. Annoyance. Not guilt. Not concern. Fucking annoyance. “That girl cries too much.”
The answer hit harder than I expected. I stared at him quietly. Chiara had defended this man. Protected him. Still loved him. Even after the bruises. Even after the belt. Even after being sold off like property. And this piece of shit dismissed her tears like they inconvenienced him.
“She was terrified you’d die,” I said.
“She embarrasses herself constantly.”
My jaw tightened. “She still thinks you love her.”
That made Lorenzo laugh weakly. A horrible sound. Wet. Bitter. Empty.
“Love?” he rasped. “You think men like us survive by loving our children?”
I walked toward the massive window overlooking the city. My reflection stretched across the glass beside the skyline, tall and dark and monstrous. Maybe he was right. Maybe men like us didn’t know how to love properly. Still… There were lines. And Lorenzo Ventura crossed them easily.
“She’s your daughter,” I reminded him.
“She’s an investment.” He coughed at him. “A tool. Not even the best one I have.”
I slowly looked back at him. He continued before I could speak. “Aurora is much prettier.”
Something dangerous moved beneath my skin.
“Aurora,” I repeated carefully.
“She’s beautiful enough to be useful.” Lorenzo smirked faintly despite the pain chewing through him. “Edoardo’s been asking questions about her already.”
Ice slid down my spine. My uncle. Fat. Cruel. Sadistic. A man who liked making girls cry because it excited him. Aurora was much too young. I pictured her sharp mouth and angry eyes. The way she stepped between Chiara and danger every chance she got. Then I pictured Edoardo touching her.
“She will hate him,” I said flatly.
“She’ll survive him,” he said, shrugging. No. Maybe she wouldn’t. Lorenzo kept talking anyway, too arrogant to notice the violence building inside me.
“Sienna’s younger, but eventually she’ll go bratva.” He coughed painfully. “Russians want peace. A pretty little girl fixes lots of problems.”
My stomach turned. Sienna still smiled with missing baby teeth. She still asked innocent questions about snakes and zoos and whether monsters could really be handsome. And this bastard was already planning which criminals would eventually own her body.
“What about Matteo?” I asked quietly.
Lorenzo’s face twisted with disgust. “The boy’s weak. He reads too much. Thinks too much. Quiet boys become cowards.”
Matteo didn’t seem weak to me. He seemed careful. Observant. Like a kid trying not to become his father.
“I’m sending him to live with soldiers next year,” Lorenzo continued. “He’ll learn how to kill early.”
The room felt smaller. Hotter. “He’s a child.”
“He’s a Ventura,” he hissed. Lorenzo’s breathing roughened again as another spasm tore through him.
“He needs blood on his hands before he turns soft,” he hissed. “I’ll make a proper man out of him even if it kills him.”
Silence swallowed the room. I stared at him for a long time.
Something inside me genuinely hurt. Not for Lorenzo.
Never for him. For Chiara. For the girl begging in her sleep for her siblings while tears soaked the pillow beneath her face.
For Aurora trying to become steel at seventeen because nobody else protected them.
For Matteo hiding behind books because books were quieter than violence.
For little Sienna smiling at monsters because nobody taught her the difference between dangerous men and safe ones.
The antidote felt heavy in my hand. Lorenzo noticed me looking at it. Hope flickered across his ruined face. Pathetic.
“You know,” I said quietly, “I came here intending to save your life.”
His pulse monitor quickened.
“She deserves that much,” he rasped. “Chiara deserves her father.”
“No,” I said coldly. “Chiara deserved a father years ago.”
His eyes narrowed viciously.
“You sanctimonious prick,” he hissed. “You think you’re better than me? You stole her from me.”
“I married her with your blessing,” I reminded him.
“You ruined her with lies,” he spit out.
The words echoed through the hospital room. And for one horrible second… I couldn’t answer. Because the truth sat between us like a loaded gun. I had ruined her life. Maybe not in the ways Lorenzo believed. But I’d still destroyed it.
I lied about her reputation. Cornered her.
Dragged her into my world kicking and screaming.
I told myself I protected her from worse men.
But standing there beside Lorenzo Ventura’s hospital bed…
I finally understood something ugly. Chiara had spent her whole life trapped between monsters.
The difference was, I was simply the first monster who looked at her and saw something precious instead of useful.
Lorenzo saw the decision happen on my face. The hope vanished first. Then came rage.