His mind was still back in that hospital room. The image of Nia, pale and still, tethered to machines, haunted him. Her life hung in the balance, and no amount of strength or wealth could fix it. His chest tightened. He gripped the edge of the hospital bed like it might hold everything together.
But nothing felt certain anymore.
Everything he'd built was crumbling, and for the first time, Luciano felt powerless.
His hand slid down to hers. Their fingers intertwined, and his thumb traced soft, rhythmic circles over her knuckles. He needed her to wake up. To fight—just like she had before. Because without her, the empire meant nothing. The money, the power—it was all empty.
The door creaked open.
Tobias stepped in, the ever-composed lieutenant now wearing a face edged with tension. His gaze flicked to Luciano, then to Nia.
"Boss," he said quietly, "we've got news on the investigation. It's not good."
Luciano's eyes snapped up. "What do you mean, not good?"
Tobias hesitated. "The shot came from inside the ballroom. Someone close. We're narrowing down suspects, but we haven't identified who gave the order yet. You've made enemies, Luciano. People you've crossed."
Luciano's jaw flexed. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. But Tobias' tone carried something else—something deeper.
This wasn't just business. It was personal.
"There's something else," Tobias said. "We found a note. Addressed to you."
Luciano straightened. "A note? What did it say?"
Tobias handed him a folded piece of paper. Luciano opened it slowly, eyes scanning each word as a cold chill moved through him.
"This is just the beginning, Luciano. You took what wasn't yours. Now I'm taking what you love."
His heart stopped for a beat. Then cold fury surged through him. The vulnerability he'd been drowning in evaporated.
His hand crumpled the note.
"Get the men ready," he said, voice low and lethal. "Find out who sent this. I want them found. Now."
Tobias gave a sharp nod and vanished.
Luciano stood there, fists clenched, the note crushed in his hand. This wasn't just about him anymore.
They were coming for her.
Nia had no idea what kind of world she'd been dragged into. But she would soon. And whoever did this—whoever dared threaten her—would pay.
But first, he had to make sure she lived.
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his breath shaky. "I won't let them take you from me," he whispered.
The machines beeped steadily, a fragile heartbeat against the darkness that gathered around them.
This wasn't about power anymore.
This was war.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, doing nothing to quiet the storm inside Luciano. The scent of antiseptic burned his nose, but beneath it, the metallic tang of blood lingered on his clothes. His shirt was stiff with it. His hands were stained, knuckles raw.
It wasn't the blood that haunted him. It was how warm it had been.
The trauma room doors burst open. A doctor stepped out, peeling off his gloves with clinical precision.
"Mr. Luciano?" he asked, voice professional but edged with urgency.
Luciano rose instantly. "What is it?"
"The bullet missed her lung by centimeters. It fractured two ribs. There's internal bleeding—we need to operate immediately."
Luciano's heart dropped. "Then do it. Why are you telling me this?"
"We need your consent. Legally, as her husband—"
Luciano grabbed the pen before the doctor could finish, scribbling his name across the form. "Do whatever it takes. Save her."
The doctor nodded, already turning, barking commands as the doors swung shut behind him.
Luciano was left in the hallway, alone.
He sat down heavily, head in his hands. His palms slicked with sweat and blood. He stared at them like they didn't belong to him. His control, his composure—it was unraveling.
He had ruled cities with fear. But he couldn't protect the one person who mattered most.
He hadn't protected her.
Time passed in a blur of footsteps and low murmurs. Machines hummed behind closed doors. His phone vibrated again and again. He ignored every call.
A nurse approached gently. "Sir, we have clean clothes if you'd like to change."
He shook his head. "No."
She hesitated. "The blood…"
"It's hers," he said. "I'm not taking it off until she opens her eyes."
She didn't press further.
Later, the hallway quieted—until purposeful footsteps echoed closer. One of his men appeared, eyes storm-dark.
"We found something."
Luciano stood, spine straightening. "Talk."
"We pulled security footage. The shot came from inside. Someone bypassed your guards."
"Who?" Luciano demanded, ice dripping from the word.
"We're still sorting through names, but... one keeps coming up. Bianca."
The name hit like a punch to the gut.
Luciano's face darkened. "Get me everything. Every contact, every movement. If she was behind this—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
The doctor returned, gloves hanging loose from his wrists. His scrubs were stained.
"She made it. Surgery went well. She's unconscious, but she'll live."
Luciano exhaled, shaky. Not relief—something deeper. A quiet shudder.
"Can I see her?"
The doctor nodded.
The room was dim. Machines beeped softly. Nia looked so small, too still.
Luciano moved to her bedside, brushing a lock of hair from her face. He sat beside her, the chair creaking under his weight.
"I should've kept you away from this," he whispered. "You didn't ask for this world."
His voice cracked.
"But I swear—I'll make them pay. All of them. And when you wake up... this won't be our end."
The machine continued its steady rhythm.
Luciano laced his fingers with hers, gripping tightly.
And f
or the first time in years, he let silence fall—not as a weapon.
But as a prayer.