Chapter 30
The antiseptic hit me like a punch the second I stepped into the hospital.
White walls. Blinding lights. The hum of machines. Everything was painfully calm. Except me.
I wasn't calm.
My chest felt tight.
My hands twitched, fingers curling like claws. Teeth clenched. The air was too sterile, too clean, too quiet.
I hated quiet.
Quiet meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering. And remembering meant him.
He laid there like a porcelain doll, pale, eyes closed, lips pressed tight in that infuriating line I knew all too well.
And I hated him.
I hated seeing him so vulnerable. I hated myself for feeling…something.
I froze at the doorway, boots clicking against the tile. Every step measured, deliberate. Every step was a warning.
Why am I even here? I muttered under my breath, venom twisting my tongue. Why do I let this human snake make me feel anything?
I circled the bed, eyes cold. My fingers itched to punch, scratch, make him feel something real, pain. I had pulled the trigger. I had watched him bleed. And yet, seeing him like this, helpless, made my chest ache.
I pressed my finger lightly against the bandaged wound, careful, sharp. "Lucky," I hissed. "You're alive. Lucky, I didn't—Lucky I didn't…" My voice broke, and I cursed it under my breath.
He stirred. Eyelids fluttered. I didn't flinch. Didn't give him the satisfaction. His Hazel eyes on me.
"You came," he murmured, hoarse, a flicker of amusement in his rasp.
I leaned over him, eyes blazing daggers.
"Yeah. I came. To make sure you remember why you're alive.
Why you're lucky. You think you're untouchable?
Because you walk around with that smug smile, I'll forgive you for anything?
You'll learn. Sooner or later. Everyone lives with the consequences of their actions. "
He smirked faintly, my eyes flickering to his beard. And I felt my teeth grind.
Sometimes I forgot this man was eight years older than me. Aurelio was seven years older.
And yet somehow, they both had the brains of a boy hitting puberty for the first time.
Exactly.
"You're intense," he said, teasing in that low, irritating voice.
"I'm not your friend. I'm not your ally. I'm not someone you get to charm into forgiveness," I snapped, leaning close enough that he could feel the heat, the rage.
"I don't want forgiveness," he whispered. "I want a proper conversation."
"You think conversation fixes murder?" I spat, eyes narrowing. "You think words fix betrayal? Words fix Sanaa? Words fix her parents? Words fix the mess you made of my life?"
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. "How did y-"
"Don't. Don't. Don't. One wrong word, and I swear I'll kill you. You won't like the consequences."
Silence. Hum of machines. His chest rising and falling. My lungs were tight with rage.
"I... I didn't mean to do that," he said quietly.
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't lie. I'll know. You meant it. You only feel bad because I am related to her."
I stepped back, almost leaving. Almost free. Almost…sane.
But then the hand. Warm. Grabbing my arm.
I froze. Pulse spiking. Slowly turned.
Hazel eyes. Wide. Serious. Not smug. Not calm. Serious.
"You're not leaving," he said softly.
I pulled back. "Let go," I hissed. "I'll remind you, Dominic. I will kill you if you push. If you ever test me again. You won't like the repercussion."
He didn't let go. Eyes searching mine, like he could read everything I tried to hide.
"I know," he whispered.
Rage and something else twisted in my chest. Something I refused to name.
"You have no idea how lucky you are that I'm not who I used to be.” I spat, the words tasting like poison. “I pulled the trigger, and that was me showing mercy. The fact that I'm even speaking to you right now is a miracle you don't deserve."
"I know," he said softly.
I took a step back, boots echoing. Free. Almost.
Then I remembered.
All of it. The fortune teller's words. Chilling, whispery, impossible to shake:"One will destroy you. One will set you free. One will stay."
Which one was he? Which one would stay? Which one would haunt me forever?
Why the hell was I taking a scammer's words seriously? For all I knew, she could have Googled everything and called it fate.
I could still smell the blood on my hands. Still see the flash of red on the concrete.
Still hear Asvika screaming. Still feel Zorian's anger pressing against my spine.
I wanted to run. I wanted to slam doors, vanish into the night. But I couldn't leave. Not yet.
I remembered Sanaa. Sunlight on her balcony. Cookies stolen from the kitchen. Her laugh rang like music. Her hand brushed mine as we learned to shoot our first guns, giggling and hissing at each other for bad aim.
Until he, Dominic, became part of the shadow that tore her from me.
She would be rolling in her grave if she saw I was conversing with her murderer.
"You think I forgive?" I hissed, voice low and sharp. "You think I can ever forgive what you've done? What you've taken?"
He flinched, like my words were a slap. "I…I didn't know it would end like this. I didn't mean—"
"Don't," I snapped, cutting him off before he could charm me with words. "Don't. I'm not listening. You made choices. You bled because of them. I didn't. But I could have, and I would have if you hadn't been lucky. You think you know me? You don't. You'll never know me."
I gritted my teeth, holding back a scream. Rage, fear, heartbreak, and something dangerously close to longing, all twisting together.
"Leave the body, send a message. That's what you said." I recalled.
"I hate you," I said, voice shaking. "I hate that you made me trust you. I hate that you ever made me feel safe. I hate that you're here. I hate that I care about anything you do. I hate you."
He pressed his lips tight, and I could see him trying to read me anyway. Like he always tried. Always succeeding.
"You're not the first," he said, whispering, teasing.
I bared my teeth. "Don't joke. Not after this. Not after Sanaa. Not after everything. Not after I put a bullet in you."
He studied me, calm and unreadable. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to see you looking at me like that."
"Deserve?" I hissed. "Deserve has nothing to do with it. You get consequences. Anger. Hate. Boundaries. You test me again, next time, I won't hesitate. I'll kill you, Dominic. And you'll know it was me."
No smirk. No jokes. Just him. Waiting. Serious. Dangerous. Vulnerable.
I took a step back, almost leaving. Rage, fear, and something else tangled in a coil in my stomach. "Stay here. Stay alive. Stay the hell out of my way," I said, deadly calm.
"I will," he whispered.
I turned. Boots echoing. Free. Almost.
And then the hand. Warm. Firm. Grabbing my arm.
My pulse spiked. My mind screamed. My heart stuttered. Rage and something else collided, raw, painful.
"Don't," I hissed, voice trembling but sharp.
"You're not walking away, not right now at least," he said softly, hazel eyes burning into mine.
And just like that, the fragile line between hatred and something else blurred. I didn't know if I wanted to pull away or lean in.
Or maybe he was awfully stronger than me.
I froze, hand still gripped by Dominic. The pulse in his fingers were steady. Calm.
Dangerous. Familiar.
My chest felt like it might cave in from the weight of it.
"Let go," I hissed, trying to wrench my arm free.
He didn't.
Hazel eyes locked on mine, unyielding. "You're not leaving," he said softly.
I pulled harder, teeth clenched. Rage boiled hotter than ever. "You dare test me after everything?"
"I'm not testing you," he countered, almost too calmly. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to know you didn't leave because of me."
Heat crawled up my neck, mingling with fury. "You don't get it. Nothing you say matters. Not anymore. You brought me to the edge, Dominic. You always do. And I survived. Don't make me regret it."
He finally released my wrist, but only enough to let me breathe. Enough to remind me he could do it again. My hands shook, nails biting into my palms.
I swallowed. "You're alive. Don't forget that."
He gave me a faint smile, the kind that made my blood boil. "I know," he said quietly. "And I appreciate it."
I wanted to throw a chair. I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab him and—no. I clenched my fists at my sides. "Don't you dare act normal. Don't you dare make me forget."
"I'm not acting," he replied. "You think I forgot what I did? You think I'm not haunted?"
My breath caught. Haunted. Me too.
"You—" I began, then cut myself off. What would I say? That I almost killed him, but didn't know why? That I hated him and maybe didn't? That I was terrified and furious all at once? Words failed me.
"So," he said, tilting his head, voice lighter, teasing, but not fully. "Are we calling a truce?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Truce?"
"Yes. Temporary. Fragile. But…alive."
I exhaled slowly, the tension coiling tight in my chest loosening just a fraction.
"Fine. But make no mistake," I said, voice hard as steel, "this truce is not forgiveness. It's not friendship. Test me again, Dominic Moretti, and I won't hesitate next time. You'll wish that bullet had been the last."
He nodded once. Quiet. Serious. Respecting the line I drew. And for a split second, that was enough.
We stood there, both breathing too loud in the sterile hospital air, both aware that something unspoken hovered between us.
Rage. Hate. Pain. Desire. Something dangerous. Something fragile.
I let my gaze wander to the monitor beside his bed, the slow, steady beeping reminding me he was alive. That he would be okay. For now.
I stepped back, boots clicking. "I'm leaving," I said, and for the first time, I meant it.
He didn't stop me this time. Only watched, a strange vulnerability in his eyes that almost made me falter. Almost.
As I reached the door, I glanced back. He gave me a small, almost-boyish smirk, and I hated that it made my stomach twist.
"Stay alive," I muttered.
"Unlike you, no one dares to shoot the mafia king of the Moretti clan," he said quietly. "And Ara, don't let me break you. Not fully."
I didn't respond, not when he called me by that fucking nickname. I walked out. Boots echoing in the hall. Heart still hammering. Rage still simmering.
God, I was pissed.
And as I stepped into the sterile light of the corridor, I knew one thing: This was far from over.
I stormed out of the hospital, shoulders tight, heart still hammering. Asvika was leaning against the car, arms crossed, smirking faintly.
"You are leaving already?" she asked.
I slid into the passenger seat, tossing her the keys. "Already. He's fine. And lucky I'm not dead inside yet."
Asvika smirked. "Lucky, huh? That's one way to put it."
"Don't start," I snapped, rolling my eyes.
"Fine. But you might want to explain why you shot him."
I leaned back, gripping the edge of the seat. "I don't owe him an explanation."
"Sure, you do," she said, pressing the gas gently as we merged onto the road. "Not to him—" she glanced at me, eyes sharp. "To yourself."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Explaining it won't make it better. It'll only make it louder."
She chuckled softly. "Loud is good sometimes. Clears the air. Or your chest."
I swatted at her arm. "Shut up. You don't get it."
"I get it more than you think. But, I also get that he needs a reminder of why he's alive."
I glared at her but didn't argue.
We drove the rest of the way in tense silence, only the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of my boots on the floor mat.
When we pulled into the mansion’s driveway, I finally let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The doors opened and we strode in, still chattering as my eyes caught the gold on the table.
Two envelopes, embossed with gold letters that shimmered in the fading sunlight. I recognized them instantly. Invitations.
Asvika leaned against the doorway, tilting her head, smirk still teasing. "Masquerade ball. You're supposed to bring a plus-one."
I groaned, running a hand down my face.
"I know exactly who I'm going to bring," she said in glee.
"And?" She prompted. "There's a gentleman who seems like your shadow. Might make this easier."
I raised a brow at her. "My shadow, huh?"
She shrugged, stepping back. "Just a suggestion."
I snatched the invitation, glancing at the ornate lettering.
My boots clacked against the marble as I stomped toward the training ground. The emptiness made me realize he wasn't there.
The garage.
I strode in. And there he was.
Shirtless, hands greasy from tinkering with his bike, sand clinging to his skin, brow furrowed, jaw tight.
He noticed my presence but didn't look up immediately, absorbed in the work.
I stepped closer, deliberately close. The heat from his body brushing mine. Close enough to suggest intimacy, close enough he might expect a kiss.
Instead, I placed the invitation flat on his chest.
"You're my plus-one," I said simply, eyes locked on his.
He finally looked up, eyes dark, searching. "Does that mean you forgive me?" His voice was low, cautious.
I took a step back, keeping a reasonable distance. He was a shirtless man.
I smirked subtly, turning my back on him. "Not even close."
The invitation rested on his chest while I walked away to take a cold shower.
Apparently, conversing with the likes of Dominic takes a toll on your mental health.