the romantic sparks

WAKING UP IN a hospital room is far from a dream come true. My head is pounding and it feels like I’ve misplaced a chunk of my memory. Did I lose my memory? Am I even sane?

Then I remember the bullets that made the car shake. My senses slowly start to return, and the beeping in the room grows louder.

I don’t dare open my eyes until I’m sure I have no other choice. It feels like my eyes are glued shut and I’ll have to pry them open. Why are the lights so bright?

I squint as bright dots dance in my line of sight before I snap them shut again.

I have an oxygen mask strapped to my face, and the tugging on my arm tells me that there are needles stuck in my skin.

I try to speak, but the mask is in the way, and moving my hands hurts too much. Shouldn’t someone be here with me?

“I see you’re awake.” My head snaps to the side to see my husband casually lounging on a plush couch.

It looks like a private room with all the fancy trimmings, but I’m too busy staring at him to admire anything else.

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He just stands up and walks toward me. Even though I’m in a hospital bed, he doesn’t seem overly concerned.

As long as I’m okay, it doesn’t matter. It’s painful to know that the only reason he’d care if I died would be because it would make him unfit for leadership.

A man who cannot protect his family is no man at all.

A hand on the oxygen mask snaps me out of my thoughts. His tired eyes are gazing down at me as he carefully pulls the mask away from my nose.

“Hi,” I croak before cringing. That was so stupid.

He studies my face, making me look away. His looks are always lethal. I don’t think I’ll ever know when he’s joking or serious. Who am I kidding? He’s always serious.

His hand reaches up and pushes my hair back a bit. I moan at the discomfort. My head is throbbing. “How bad does it hurt?” he asks.

“Bad?” It comes out more like a question.

The door slams open, making me flinch. I hate loud noises, especially now.

“Dante.” There’s an edge to the Don’s voice as he removes his hand from my forehead as if I’ve burned him.

“Sorry,” the raven-haired man mutters before glancing at me. Out of respect—I’d like to believe—his gaze doesn’t drop below my face, where I know I’m wearing a thin gown. “I didn’t know she was awake.”

Antonio hums in response. His suit is expensive, and in contrast to his brother’s shirt and jeans and my hospital gown, Antonio looks quite out of place. “Go call the doctor,” he orders.

Dante doesn’t flinch at the cold glare his brother gives him. It’s as if he’s used to it or just doesn’t care. His pale brown eyes meet mine as he gives me a curt nod before leaving the room.

I turn to look at my husband who stands beside me. All his tiredness is masked by a stern look. He looks too professional for my liking.

“I’m sorry.” I feel the need to apologize. Surely, he would be less harsh and my punishment would be less severe.

His stare compels me to hold his gaze as he raises an eyebrow. “An apology is for someone who is at fault. I was under the impression that Micheal Lastra’s daughter knew the difference.”

My eyes widen at the remark. “Ugh, yeah. Sor—” I stop as a blush forms on my cheeks. I’m doing it again, so I decide to change the topic. He surely wouldn’t hit me right now, right? “What happened?”

I don’t get an answer. There’s a knock on the door and Antonio takes that moment to talk to the doctor. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was avoiding the conversation on purpose.

The Ace never forgets.

Everyone knows that. Don Giordano—also known as Ace—holds grudges. He never forgets and his memory is one of the best of the best.

The doctor is male and older. With his light, graying hair and his face as pale as Edward Cullen’s, he smiles at me. But it’s not a respectful smile.

I instantly know that he doesn’t like me, but with the Don, he has to show some respect.

“Check her and discharge her.”

From his calm tone, I would never guess that my husband is mad, but I know better. It’s the calm before the storm. I guess the doctor figures that too, or he’s just scared.

The man doesn’t waste another second degrading me in his head. He gets to work. His fingers press on my forehead, making me hiss in pain.

Antonio’s gaze never wavers. He’s stone-faced and there’s absolutely no warmth in his gaze. He’s like the ice in the Arctic that never melts.

“What’s wrong with me?”

The question is supposed to be for the doctor but I can’t help but look at my husband. I know that even after the torture he will inflict on me, he’s the only one who can protect me.

Antonio’s eyes meet mine before his finger discreetly touches one of mine at my side. It’s hard not to read too much into it. He’s just grazing the top of my pinky finger.

~Don’t fall for it, Franci.~

And I don’t. But my heart skips a beat. His coal-black eyes never leave mine as he chooses not to answer. The doctor does instead.

When I turn toward him, the man is not looking at me, but at my husband. I’m not even surprised. I have no power whatsoever. My husband gives a slight nod, and the doctor speaks.

“We did brain imaging to check whether the injury is severe or not. Luckily, it’s not severe, but I recommend lots of rest and less stress.

“She may have blurry vision, ringing in the ears, and may hear a buzzing sound. Confusion or short-term memory loss could also occur as symptoms.

“I need to do a neurological exam.” The words hang in the air, sounding more like a question than a statement.

I can’t help but think they’re making a big deal out of nothing. Sure, I can’t remember how I got hurt, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a concussion. There are others who need the attention more than I do.

My husband gives a quick nod, then looks down at me. His hand slips from mine and I miss the warmth instantly. For a moment, I let myself pretend that everything is normal, that I lead a normal life.

But that’s far from the truth. I’m a Mafia wife. In this life, love is as rare as dying of old age.

***

I was attacked. Between regaining consciousness and the flurry of tests Dr. Pugliesi ran, I haven’t had a moment to myself.

Now that I do, the reality of my situation sinks in. I’m in danger. This attack is a declaration of war.

If I had died, Antonio would be seen as unfit to be the ~capo~. Whoever attacked me knew I was going out, which means they’re on the inside. Maybe even a bodyguard.

Where is Silvio?

I glance around the car. For my safety—or so I’d like to believe—my husband is taking me home with him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

He’s staring out the tinted window, watching the world pass by. His usually pristine suit is wrinkled, like he dressed in a hurry.

“Antonio, where’s Silvio?” It’s not really my place to ask, but he doesn’t seem too mad at me. Maybe he’ll answer.

It’s strange not seeing Silvio in the driver’s seat. I’m more used to him than any other guard. His absence makes me uneasy.

I trust Silvio. He’s been my shadow for five years. While other bodyguards come and go, he’s always there.

“Dead,” Antonio says, his voice devoid of emotion. He doesn’t even look at me. The car suddenly feels too small, too cold. Dead? Dead.

No…that can’t be right. I can’t wrap my head around the idea that the one constant in my life is gone.

But what did I expect? He died because of me. It was his job. I’m the reason he’s dead.

I fight back tears. One of the perks of being used to this life is that I don’t cry, but my eyes do water. Silvio was one of the few people I trusted. He was my protector.

“Oh,” I manage to say. Antonio prefers words to gestures. I’ve learned that much from living with him.

The BMW falls silent again. There are two bodyguards in the front, but I barely notice them.

I’m used to them, but without Silvio’s familiar blonde hair, I feel like I’m in constant danger. Maybe I am.

“Trust no one, sister. Not a single soul,” Arianna’s words echo in my head. Despite her youth, she knew what was coming.

She was only eighteen, but she was wise beyond her years and I trusted her. Trusting no one seems like the safest option now.