AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“But I won’t have you.”
“Then you’re going to have to stop the bleeding. Get some pressure on the wound.”
Emma works with me to stem the bleeding. Tears stream down my face, unbidden, as the reality of the situation sets in. I lean closer to Alessandro, whispering, “I love you,” a confession so raw, so true, it seems to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room.
My hands are soaked in blood. His men do what they can, one of them already on the phone to the emergency services.
Alessandro tries to chuckle, the sound more a wheeze than anything, and says, “You’re only saying you love me because you got me shot.”
Even in the face of death, he teases, pulling from our well of shared memories and private jokes to lighten the heavy air. “I should have shown you how to shoot straight.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true, you asshole,” I retort, affection and frustration mingling in my voice. His presence, his spirit, even now, ignites that familiar fire within me, a reminder of how much he’s shaped me, challenged me, loved me.
His eyes meet mine, the connection so deep it feels as if he’s reaching into my very soul. “I love you too, for that fire of yours,” he whispers, his voice fading as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “You saved yourself. You did good. You don’t need my protection anymore.”
Panic rises in my throat as I see him slipping away, his eyelids fluttering in a battle against the darkness. “Stay awake,” I beg, grasping his hand tighter, as if I could tether his spirit to this world with my will alone.
In this moment, I realize how far I’ve come, from a woman unsure of her place in the world to one who fights tooth and nail for the people she loves.
Alessandro taught me strength, courage, and resilience. He showed me what it means to love unconditionally, fiercely. He showed me how to live. I will not let him die.
* * *
The hospital’s antiseptic smell is oppressive, mingling with the sharp tang of my fear. I sit, rigid and tense, on a chair that might as well be made of stone for all the comfort it offers. Time seems suspended, each second elongated, a torture of anticipation.
I’m lost in memories and what-ifs, the sound of that devastating gunshot echoing endlessly in my mind.
Alessandro, lying there, his strength ebbing away on a tide of blood—all because of a vendetta that should never have touched him. He came to me because of my father’s debts. He saved me.
The weight of guilt is a crushing force; my connection to my father, however tenuous, dragged Alessandro into the line of fire. Did I lead him to his death?
In a corner, a television mutters to itself, the anchor recounting Garibaldi’s death with detached interest. He escaped the basement in the chaos but he didn’t survive much longer.
It should be a moment of triumph, a turning of the page on a chapter drenched in violence and fear. Yet, sitting here, in the sterile limbo of the hospital, those feelings are as distant as a dream upon waking.
My reality is here, in the waiting, in the not knowing, while the rest of the world moves on oblivious.
Finally, the doctor emerges, a harbinger in scrubs, his approach slow and measured. My heart clenches, a vice of dread squeezing tighter with each step he takes towards us. “May we speak privately?” he inquires, his tone neutral, yet beneath it, I sense an undercurrent of solemnity.
For a moment, the world narrows to this interaction, this precipice on which we stand. Emma’s hand finds mine, a silent show of support, her grip firm and unwavering.
I nod, rising to meet the doctor, each step a march towards an unknown that terrifies me. The corridor stretches before us, a pathway to a future dictated by the words yet to come.
In that walk, my mind races—a frantic search for strength, for the courage Alessandro has always inspired in me. He showed me how to fight, not just against the dangers that seek to tear us apart but against the shadows within.
Now, as I face this trial, his teachings are my armor, his love my guide.
In the sterile quiet of the consultation room, the doctor’s gaze meets mine, a grave preamble to the news he’s about to deliver.
“Mrs. Rossi,” he starts, his voice steady but laced with an undeniable gravity, “I won’t sugarcoat this—Alessandro’s condition is critical. The bullet caused significant damage, and he’s currently in surgery.”
I feel a jolt of fear, but it’s quickly tempered by resolve. “But he’ll make it, right?” I ask, clinging to a thread of hope.
The doctor sighs, a weary acknowledgment of the battle being waged on an operating table far too close. “He’s fighting, harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. But I have to be honest with you—the odds are not in his favor.”
My heart clenches, but I refuse to let despair take hold. “I want to see him. As soon as possible.”
He hesitates, the weight of professional protocol momentarily battling with human empathy. “Not yet. We’re still operating. But you need to be prepared, as next of kin, for all possible outcomes. We’re doing everything we can, Jess.”
