The first thing I noticed was the sound. A steady, rhythmic beep marked the slow return of my awareness. Next was the smell—not of rust and saltwater, but of clean linen and antiseptic. Finally, there was the absence of pain. The sharp fire in my side had faded to a dull, manageable ache.
I forced my heavy eyelids open. The world came into focus, a blur of white and soft grey. I was in a hospital room, but it was unlike any I'd seen before. It was too quiet, too luxurious. The beeping came from a sleek monitor beside a bed that was more comfortable than my own.
My gaze shifted from the machine to the figure slumped in the chair beside me, and my breath caught in my throat.
It was Dante.
But he didn't look like the powerful CEO or the efficient killer. The man in the chair seemed like a stranger. His suit from the gala was rumpled, his tie was gone, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Dark stubble cast a shadow on his jaw, and deep, tired lines marked his face. His head was bowed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles turned white. He looked… broken.
He must have sensed the shift in the room or my breathing change, because his head snapped up. His green eyes, bloodshot and raw, locked onto mine. A storm of emotions flashed across his face in an instant—shock, relief, and something vulnerable that made my heart ache.
"You're awake," he said. His voice wasn't the commanding baritone I knew; it came out as a rough, gravelly whisper.
I tried to sit up, an instinctive act of defiance, but pain shot through my side, and a wave of dizziness forced me back against the pillows.
"Don't move," he said, his voice regaining some authority as he rose and moved to the edge of my bed. "The doctor said not to exert yourself."
"Where am I?" I rasped, my throat dry.
He poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table, his hand steady. He helped me take a small sip, fingers brushing against my neck as he supported my head. The brief contact sent a jolt through me, an awareness that felt out of place here, in this sterile room, with this dangerous man.
"You're in the medical wing of the tower," he explained, eyes scanning the monitors as if he understood every number and waveform. "You've been unconscious for nearly fourteen hours."
Memories rushed back in a chaotic stream. The gala. The car. Valerius. The warehouse. The pain of the bullet. And then… the cold concrete, and Dante, his blood mingling with mine.
I looked from his face to my arm, where a simple IV was taped, then back to his. His blood was now in my veins. A part of him was a part of me. The thought felt too intimate and made my head spin.
"Valerius?" I asked, the name tasting like ash.
"He's been dealt with," Dante said, his voice flat and cold, making it clear that he meant it. The killer was just below the surface. "So has Julian."
A shiver ran down my spine. I didn't want to know the details.
"The debt is paid, Moretti," I said, my voice stronger now. "You saved my life. I saved yours. We're even." I needed to say it, to re-establish the boundaries that had become blurred.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked at the bandage on my side, a stark white patch against the pale green of the hospital gown. The guilt washing over his face was almost palpable.
"No," he said, his voice low and intense. "We are not even. You took a bullet meant for me. You are lying in this bed because of me. The debt is now mine, Isabella, and it is larger than ever."
Before I could respond, the door opened softly and Aria peeked in. Her face lit up when she saw my eyes open. "Bella!" she cried, rushing to my side and carefully taking my hand. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried."
"I'm okay," I squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Her eyes darted between me and her brother, who had slipped into a watchful silence. "He hasn't left your side for a second," she said in a stage whisper, loud enough for him to hear. "He scared the daylights out of the surgeon. I think he was ready to perform the operation himself if it took any longer."
Dante shot her a look that could freeze fire, but she ignored him. Her presence broke the heavy tension, bringing a fragile sense of normalcy. She chattered about the nurses and about Elara, who was apparently cooking up a storm of "healing soups."
As she spoke, Leo appeared at the door, his expression as stoic as ever. He caught Dante's eye and gave a subtle nod. An update.
Dante's focus snapped back to the present, the brief crack in his armor closing. He straightened his rumpled suit, running a hand over his tired face, and the CEO began to pull himself together.
"I have to attend to something," he said, his tone once again formal and distant. He looked at me, his gaze lingering for a moment, a silent, unreadable message passing between us. "Rest. Elara will bring you food. Don't get out of this bed."
And with that, he was gone, sweeping out of the room with Leo at his side, the aura of power and danger surrounding him once more.
The room felt unnervingly empty without his presence.
"He looks terrible," I murmured, watching the empty doorway.
"He's been a wreck," Aria confirmed, her voice serious. "I've never seen him like this, Bella. Not since… not since our parents died. The thought of losing you…" She trailed off, her meaning clear.
I sank back into the pillows, my mind in a jumble. He was a killer. He was a ruthless monster who had bought my life and trapped me.
He was my savior.
He was the man who had laid down on a filthy floor and bled for me without a second thought. He was the man who had watched over me all night, his armor in ruins.
How could he possibly be both? And what was I supposed to do with the undeniable truth that a part of me was starting to care for the monster?