Chapter 2 - The Glass Tower
The scent of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and ozone slowly replaced the smell of rain and blood.
I woke up to a rhythmic, steady beep.
Beep... beep... beep...
Every muscle in my upper body felt like it had been shredded by a butcher's blade and restitched with hot wire. I tried to move my fingers, but my right arm was entirely immobilized in a medical sling, heavy bandages wrapped tightly around my chest, shoulder, and abdomen.
"Don't move," a gravelly, exhausted voice said from the darkness near the foot of my bed.
I blinked several times, my eyes adjusting to the soft, dim ambient lighting of a private medical suite. It wasn't a normal hospital room. The walls were lined with dark teak wood, the large panoramic window offered a sweeping, twilight view of the city skyline, and state-of-the-art surgical monitors hummed softly beside the bed.
Marco DeLuca sat in a high-backed leather armchair next to my IV stand.
He looked uncharacteristic, almost unyielding in his dishevelment. He hadn't shaved in days; dark stubble coated his sharp jawline. His usual pristine tailored suit was gone, replaced by a simple dark grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate, dark ink of tattoos crawling up his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, framed by heavy dark circles.
"Where... am I?" I rasped, my throat feeling as though it were filled with crushed glass.
Marco stood up immediately. He didn't call for a nurse. He stepped to the bedside table, picked up a glass of water with a flexible straw, and carefully lowered it to my lips, supporting the back of my neck with a surprisingly gentle hand.
"Drink slowly," he murmured.
I took three small sips, the cool water soothing my raw throat.
"You're in my private clinic on the top floor of the DeLuca Tower," Marco said, setting the glass down. His voice was quiet, devoid of the harsh, commanding tone he usually wore like armor. "You've been in a medically induced coma for six days."
"Six... days?" My eyes widened in sudden panic. My heart monitor spiked—beep-beep-beep-beep. "Danny! My brother—the rehab facility payment was due on the first! If I missed it, they’ll discharge him—"
"Quiet," Marco commanded gently, placing his broad palm gently over my left, uninjured hand on the blanket. His skin was warm, steadying. "Your brother is fine. I had my personal attorneys transfer his care to the private Wingate Neurological Institute in Zurich. He was flown out four days ago on my private jet. He has a team of six specialists working on his spinal rehabilitation as we speak."
I stared at him, stunned into utter silence. "Zurich...? That costs hundreds of thousands of dollars..."
"It’s paid," Marco said flatly. "For the rest of his life, if necessary."
I swallowed hard, trying to process the magnitude of what he was saying. "Why would you do that?"
Marco didn't answer immediately. He pulled his chair closer to the edge of the bed and sat back down, his dark eyes fixed entirely on my face.
"Five bullets, Lena," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "Two in the left shoulder, one in the side, one through the liver, and one two inches from your heart. The surgeons spent fourteen hours taking the lead out of you. You lost four units of blood. Twice, your heart stopped on the operating table."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together.
"My mother is alive because you used your body as a shield," Marco continued, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper. "Caruso was working for the Moretti syndicate. They had a hit team positioned across the street. They intended to eliminate my mother to weaken my position before launching a full-scale war."
He reached out, his long, calloused fingers hovering inches above my bandaged right cheek before lightly brushing away a strand of dark hair.
"You took five bullets for a woman who wasn't your family," Marco said, looking into my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. "After I called you a nobody. After I treated you like garbage in front of my men."
"I... I didn't do it for you, Marco," I whispered, turning my face slightly. "I did it because Isabella is a human being. She was kind to me when no one else was."
"I know," Marco said softly. "And that makes me feel smaller than I have ever felt in my life."
The heavy double doors of the medical suite suddenly creaked open.
Isabella DeLuca walked into the room, leaning lightly on a polished mahogany cane. She was pale, her frail frame draped in an elegant cashmere shawl, but her eyes were sharp, alive, and full of emotion.
"Marco," Isabella snapped quietly. "Are you hovering over this poor girl again? Let her breathe."
Marco offered a quiet, rare, half-smile, standing up to give his mother his seat. "She just woke up, Mother."
Isabella ignored her son, walking directly to the side of my bed. She set her cane against the nightstand, reached out with both hands, and took my uninjured left hand in hers. Her hands were trembling, but her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Lena," Isabella whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "My brave, stupid, wonderful girl."
"Mrs. DeLuca," I smiled faintly. "You shouldn't be standing..."
"I will stand as long as I damn well please," the old woman said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. "You saved my life, child. In this family, a debt of blood is never forgotten."
She turned her dark, sharp eyes toward her son, her tone shifting into pure steel.
"Marco has already dealt with the Moretti hit team," Isabella said calmly. "And as for the rest of them... well, my son has been very busy while you were sleeping."
I looked at Marco.
His face had hardened again, the cold, ruthless mob boss returning behind his eyes, though the way he looked at me remained strikingly soft.
"The Morettis thought they could strike at my home," Marco said quietly, his voice dripping with an unspoken, terrifying promise of violence. "They are finding out what happens when they touch what belongs to me."
"I don't belong to you, Marco," I reminded him gently, my eyes heavy with exhaustion as the pain medication began to pull me back toward sleep.
May you like
Marco reached out, his hand gently covering mine where it lay in his mother's grasp.
"You do now, Lena," he whispered as my eyelids fluttered shut. "Whether you want to or not."
