Alessio
Alessio entered into the car parked outside the hospital, and slammed the car door harder than necessary.
"Drive." He barked at the driver.
The engine purred as his driver pulled into traffic, but Alessio wasn't looking at the road. His jaw was tight, fingers flexing restlessly in his lap. He could still feel her in his skin. Not pain. Not fire. But warmth.
For the first time in twenty-five years, he'd been touched… and lived.
Not just lived. It had calmed something. The ache behind his ribs, the crawling pressure in his veins—it had quieted in her presence like a lullaby against a storm.
And then it came back the moment that damn nurse brushed his arm.
He looked down at his hand. The one that had gripped her wrist.
Nothing.
No burns. No damage.
His mind was a battleground of disbelief and something far more dangerous: hope.
The moment replayed over and over in his head. Her wide eyes. The scent of roses and ink.
The way she'd said, "I know you."
He'd seen her before. In dreams? No. Memories. Fractured and buried. A blurry face pressed to his chest, tiny fingers glowing against his skin. Healing him. Comforting him. A voice that whispered, "Don't move."
Could it be her?
Could she be the girl from all those years ago?
---
Back at the penthouse, Alessio paced around trying to make sense of what happened in the hospital.
His phone buzzed on the table—calls from his father, from his second-in-command, from Sienna, which he texted earlier in the hospital after hearing his diagnosis.
But now, he does not feel talking to her, or anyone at all. He can't seem to calm down unless he finds that girl.
She'd touched him.
And nothing had happened.
No agony.
No curse.
Only warmth—and those haunting, impossible memories.
Could she be a hallucination?
No. She was real.
Being a Moretti had its perks. He called the doctor to ask for the visitor's log book.
"Good day Mr Moretti."
"Do you still have the patient list from today?" he asked suddenly, cutting the doctor off.
The doctor was stunned. "Why?"
"I ran into someone in the hallway today. A girl with brown hair, chestnut eyes.
The doctor paused for a minute. "I'm afraid we have lots of people with that description going into the hospital everyday Sir. It would be easier if you know her name ".
"She came to visit someone, her father."
"I'll try to check now Sir."
"Send the visitor's log to my email this instant."
The doctor stammered. "But Sir, privacy rules..."
"I am the reason this hospital is still standing " Alessio growled. "Don't make me repeat myself."
"Okay Sir." The call ended.
Few minutes later, he checked the log file on his laptop. He scanned names.
Rows of strangers.
Then he found her.
"Aria Salvi – Room 412 (Father: Lorenzo Salvi) came in at 5:47pm, left at 8:53pm"
That was the same time he met her.
Aria. A soft, melodic name. It sounded like her.
He texted Alex, his most trusted man.
> Find out everything you can about an Aria Salvi. Lives in the city. Probably early twenties. Father is Lorenzo Salvi, currently admitted at San Giovanni Hospital. Discreetly.
A moment later, the reply came:
> On it. ETA 6 hours.
Alessio sank into the leather armchair, one hand resting on his temple.
Six hours felt like an eternity.
He didn't know what Aria was. A witch? A healer? A fluke? All he knew was that her touch hadn't hurt. That meant something. And if there was even a chance she was the key to breaking his curse—to surviving long enough to change his fate—then he'd find her.
He had to.