Chapter 50
The doctor had come in and sedated her, so she slept for three days straight, surviving on fluids while they administered medications.
“We can’t have her awake while we administer these medications, it's to make sure she doesn't seize. Please understand Mr. Moretti.”
The house had grown quiet again. Too quiet.
I sat by her bed, the steady hiss of the IV drip, the only rhythm in the room.
Three days. Three days of watching her emerald eyes stay shut, three days of wondering if, when she finally woke up, she would still be the version of Ara that reached for my hand in the dark—or if the "time-bridge" would finally collapse, leaving only the woman who had every reason to hate me.
I reached out, my thumb tracing the back of her hand. Her skin was cool, a side effect of the cocktail of sedatives they were pumping into her to keep her brain from firing itself into another seizure.
"Don't leave me in the quiet, Ara," I whispered, the words feeling like a confession. "The quiet is where the ghosts live."
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn't even have to look to know who it was. The world outside didn't stop because my world was sedated.
I stood up, adjusting the blanket over her legs one last time before stepping out onto the balcony. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of salt and the jasmine she’d grown to despise.
"Report," I snapped into the phone.
"Your uncle is moving, Boss," Matteo’s voice was tight. "He’s been seen near the perimeter of the safe house in Sicily. He has begun to wonder why you’ve been gone for so long."
My jaw ticked as all the anger I've been holding inside for the past weeks resurfaced.
“We can’t let him know we even suspect he has anything to do with Versace’s kidnapping. Keep me updated.”
“Roger, quel capo.”
Outside, the sun sank, painting the sky in ribbons of orange and violet. The last traces of warmth bled into the marble floors.
My men surrounded the medical mansion making sure not even a fly was let in without authorization. There was no one allowed into the mansion except me, Versace and the doctors. I was the protection within.
The kitchen was silent, save for the low hum of the industrial refrigerator. I had walked away from the monitors, needing a moment to gather my thoughts.
I was staring at the stove, my mind a mess of business and the weight of the woman upstairs.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the crumpled pack of cigarettes I'd been carrying for weeks.
Pulling one out, I stared at the white filter. My hands, usually steady enough to hold a sight on a moving target at five hundred yards, had a faint, jagged tremor.
Merda.
I couldn’t even smoke. I don’t remember the last time I held a cigarette to my lips. My lungs felt tight, but not from the want of tobacco.
“Trust me, you can only handle one slow poison at a time,” I muttered to the demons in my head, tossing the pack into the bin. “And I choose the addiction with emerald eyes.”
Nicotine was easy. You lit it, burned it and threw the ash away. But Ara… she was under my skin. She was the high that made everything else feel like a withdrawal.
I turned to the sink to splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the three days of exhaustion and the scent of the hospital room upstairs.
I was the Don of the House of Moretti. I was supposed to be the one pulling the strings.
But as I gripped the edge of the porcelain, I realized I was only a man waiting for a ghost to wake up.
Clack.
The sound was sharp. Final. It echoed from the foyer, cutting through the hum of the refrigerator.
Clack. Drag. Clack.
My blood turned to ice. That wasn't the sound of a guard’s boot. It was the sound of metal on marble.
I didn't waste time reaching for my gun; I was already moving. I rounded the corner into the foyer, my heart leaping into my throat.
There, at the top of the stairs, stood the ruin of my world.
Ara.
She was swaying, her frame swallowed by a white silk gown, her hand white-knuckled around the pole of an IV stand. The green of her eyes—the emeralds I had traded my soul for—were dull, glazed over with a terrifying, drug-induced fog.
"Ara!" I roared, but it was too late.
She took one trembling step toward the edge of the stairs, her knuckles white as she gripped the railing for support. The IV stand tipped, the metal base clattering against the marble.
"Dominic..." she whispered. It wasn't a call for help, it was a realization.
Then her knees buckled.
Time fractured. I didn't think, I moved. I hit the stairs in a dead sprint, my heart leaping into my throat. I cleared half the flight in seconds, my lungs burning, reaching out just as she tipped forward into the empty air.
I caught her mid-fall, the momentum slamming us both back against the stairs. The IV pole clattered down the marble steps, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
She was a dead weight in my arms, cold and limp. I pulled her into my lap, my hands shaking as I cupped her face.
"Ara! Look at me. Open your eyes!"
The plastic bag of fluids burst against the floor, a pool of clear liquid spreading like a mockery of the life she was losing.
I cupped her face, my thumb brushing against those emerald eyes that were now half-open and sightless. She was right here. I was holding her. But I had never felt more alone.
"You're okay," I lied, my voice cracking, a sound no Don should ever make. "I've got you. You're not going anywhere."
I looked down at her hands and saw the bruise where the needle had been ripped out. She had fought her way out of sleep just to find me, and I had been in the kitchen thinking about a fucking cigarette.
"Matteo!" I roared again, the sound tearing through my throat. "Get the doctor back here now! If she doesn't wake up, tell him he doesn't leave this house alive!"
I gathered her into my arms, standing up with a strength born of pure, unadulterated panic. I tucked her head under my chin, holding her so tight I was afraid I’d break her ribs.
She needed to get better. She needed to wake up so I could tell her how much I hated her for this—and how much I would burn the world down just to see those emerald eyes turn green again.
I placed her on the bed, and the doctor and nurses burst in with speed. Of course, their lives were on the line, I would make them disappear, there won’t even be fossils to prove their existence.
“We will be taking her off the sedatives now, she has enough to recover now.”
I pulled the doctor; he shuddered as I towered over him. “I need dates. I need specifics. When will she be able to leave this place and be herself?”
“T-the sedatives are kicking in and working pretty fast with her metabolism. I'd say three weeks and she can be back to her normal self. And yes, her memory could be back anytime from now.”
“Hm.”
“With our state-of-the-art rehabilitation program and with her being a strong woman, she'll be back in less than two weeks.”
In a few hours, the doctors and nurses had removed the IVs and the sedatives and for the first time in days, Ara was breathing air that wasn’t filtered through a machine.
She was fully awake now; Matteo and the medics had all left giving us some space.
“You gave me a fucking scare, Ara.”
I guided her out to the garden. She was still shaky, her hand gripping my forearm for balance, but she refused the wheelchair. Her pride was the only thing keeping her upright and I wasn’t about to strip her of it.
We settled onto the thick, emerald grass beneath the shade of an ancient oak tree. I sat back, and without a word, I pulled her toward me until her head rested in my lap. She didn't fight me this time. She let out a long, shuddering breath, her body finally sagging against mine.
I ran my fingers through her hair, untangling the knots that had formed during her three-day sleep. Her hair felt like silk against my palms, a grounding reminder that she was here. She was alive.
"I’ve never felt more useless in my life," she whispered.
The words were quiet, barely louder than the rustle of the leaves above us, but they cut deeper than any blade. She wasn't looking at the garden; she was looking at her own hands, pale and trembling against the dark fabric of my trousers.
"You aren't useless, Ara," I said, my voice low and firm. My hand stilled on her head, cupping the side of her face so she could feel the heat of my palm. "You fought your way through a fog that would have buried anyone else. You stood up when your body told you to stay down."
"I fell, Dominic," she countered, a spark of that old Versace fire flickering in her dull eyes. "I couldn't even walk down a flight of stairs. I’m a liability."
"You're a queen recovering from a war," I corrected. I leaned down, my shadow falling over her, shielding her from the glare of the sun. "And a liability doesn't make me feel like the world is ending every time she closes her eyes. You’re my only priority. There’s nothing useless about that."
She closed her eyes then, a single tear escaping and disappearing into the grass. I didn't wipe it away. I kept my hand there, holding her together while she learned how to be whole again.
“You want to recover quickly so bad, yeah? I’ll help.” I adjusted myself. “But I need you, Ara, to let me in. I can’t do anything if you keep me locked out. So please, baby, let me in.” I begged.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I want you to help me, so I'll let you in.” I kissed her forehead.
“Thank you.”
“I think I remembered something, someone in my memory saying they sent your sister abroad. How did you lose your parents?” I felt a thud in my chest.
My uncle must have ranted and said all those things to her.
“It was a fire. I can still remember their screams of agony; my uncle came and saved my sister and me. He could have saved my parents.” I spoke with gritted teeth as I curled and uncurled my fists.
Fragments of her memory seemed to be returning, and I decided to milk this opportunity before she shut out again.
“Your first and last name is Versace.” I started treading carefully as she sat up adjusting so she could lean her head on my shoulder instead. “Why is that?”
She kept her eyes forward. “Because my grandfather was a man who didn’t believe in endings, “she said firmly.
“He told me once that the lineage doesn’t die just because I, the heir, was a girl. He gave me the name so the world would know I am the blood, not just a placeholder for the next man to come along.” She finished.
Her grandfather was a smart fucking man. “A queen without a kingdom yet.”
“I don’t need a kingdom,” She countered. “I am the Kingdom and the House of Versace is my playground.”
I think the doctor lied to me. Versace was going to be back to normal in less than three weeks.
I plucked a lily pointing it in her direction as she smacked it off my hand. “You told the staff to clear your room of all the flowers. You look at them like an insult.”
She curled closer. “I hate them.”
“When my parents died, when the ‘accident’ happened…the house was filled with them. Hundreds of bouquets. Thousands of petals. All of them from the ‘family’ and the associates who were too fucking scared to look a grieving eight-year-old in the eye.”
She sounded so bitter and I could feel the anger surging from her.
Then she turned to face me, “They didn’t come to the funeral. They didn’t check if I was eating. They just sent flowers as a consolation prize for my dead parents. To me, a flower is a sign that someone is too much of a coward to show up.”
She sat there, looking smaller than I’d ever seen her, her hands curled into fists in her lap. "Happy now, Old man? You got me to talk," she said, her voice hollow and drained of excitement.
I didn't answer right away. I opened my arms; a silent invitation I wasn't sure she’d take. She stared at me for a long beat, her emerald eyes wide and startled, as if the very idea of comfort was a physical blow.
Then, slowly, she moved.
She scooched closer, the friction of her clothes against the grass the only sound, until she finally collapsed against my chest. Her head tucked perfectly under my chin, her frame disappearing into the shadow of my shoulders.
I felt the tension leave her in one long, jagged sob that she tried to swallow.
I rested my chin on the top of her head, my hand finding the soft rhythm of patting her hair. I was eight years older. I had seen the world rot and felt the weight of a Don’s crown before she had even finished being a child. I knew what it was to be surrounded by people but entirely alone.
"You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, cara?" I murmured into her hair.
I wasn't asking as a partner seeking information. I was asking as a man who finally realized that beneath the Versace name and the sharp tongue, she was a girl who had been waiting for someone to actually show up—not with flowers, but with a hand to hold.
She didn't speak, but her grip on my shirt tightened, her fingers bunching the fabric until her knuckles turned white. It was the first time she wasn't fighting me.
It was the first time she was letting me hold the pieces.