Chapter Fourteen:The Cost Of Devotion
1032 Words
The sound of the gunshot echoed longer than it should have.
Serafina didn’t remember moving—only that suddenly she was on her knees, hands slick with warmth, Alessio’s weight collapsing against her. Her scream tore out of her before she could stop it.
“No—no, no, no—Alessio—”
“Breathe,” he said hoarsely.
The sound of his voice—strained but alive—was the only thing keeping her upright.
The bullet hadn’t hit his heart.
It had struck his shoulder, tearing through muscle, blood soaking his jacket almost instantly. He clenched his jaw against the pain, one arm wrapped instinctively around her as if even wounded, his body’s first priority was shielding her.
Chaos erupted around them—shouting, guns raised, men scrambling for cover. But Alessio remained still.
Commanding.
“Stand down,” he ordered, voice sharp despite the pain. “No one fires.”
Someone laughed nervously from across the vineyard. “You’re bleeding, De Luca. This is the part where power slips.”
Alessio lifted his head slowly, eyes blazing.
“This is the part,” he said evenly, “where you remember who I am.”
His men moved then—silent, efficient, weapons trained with deadly calm. The balance shifted in seconds. Fear rippled outward, palpable and immediate.
Serafina pressed her hands against his wound, shaking. “You said you wouldn’t die.”
“I didn’t,” he replied faintly. “Not tonight.”
She swallowed a sob. “You promised—”
“I promised to protect you,” he said. “Not myself.”
Her chest cracked open at that.
The older man—the uncle—stepped forward again, face tight with calculation.
“You’ve made your point,” he said. “Let the girl go. End this cleanly.”
Serafina lifted her head, fury burning through her fear.
“She’s not a girl,” Alessio snapped. “And this ends only one way.”
He struggled to his feet with her help, refusing assistance from anyone else. Blood dripped to the dirt with each movement, dark against pale stone.
“You shot me,” he continued calmly. “On neutral ground. In front of witnesses.”
A murmur spread.
“You broke the old rules,” Alessio said. “Which means I’m no longer bound by them.”
The man’s smile faltered.
“You think Sicily will side with you?” he scoffed.
Alessio’s gaze flicked briefly to Serafina—soft, almost apologetic.
“I don’t need Sicily,” he said. “I need silence.”
He gave a single nod.
The night ended quickly after that.
⸻
Later, in the quiet of the estate’s medical wing, Serafina sat beside Alessio’s bed, her hands trembling in her lap. The doctors had come and gone, murmuring reassurances. The bullet had missed bone. He would recover.
Eventually.
She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the stark paleness of his skin against white sheets.
“You’re an i***t,” she whispered.
His lips twitched faintly. “I’ve been called worse.”
Relief hit her so hard she laughed—and then cried, covering her mouth as tears spilled freely.
“You scared me,” she said brokenly.
“I know,” he replied softly. “I’m sorry.”
She stood abruptly, pacing. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch someone choose death like it’s nothing?”
He shifted carefully, wincing. “It’s never nothing. It’s just… clear.”
She turned back to him, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to be clear about dying.”
His gaze held hers. “I do—if it keeps you breathing.”
She shook her head, voice trembling. “That’s not love. That’s martyrdom.”
“No,” he said gently. “It’s devotion.”
She stopped pacing.
“That night,” she said quietly, “at the vineyard… when you stepped in front of me—”
“I would do it again,” he said immediately.
“That’s what terrifies me,” she whispered.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she sat back down, taking his uninjured hand in both of hers.
“You don’t get to die for me without my consent,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “That’s not how—”
“Then learn,” she interrupted. “Because I chose you. Not your death.”
The words seemed to reach him in a way nothing else had.
“You chose me,” he repeated softly.
“Yes,” she said. “And that means you stay. You heal. You fight smarter.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “You sound like a De Luca already.”
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t push it.”
His eyes darkened, serious again. “There will be consequences.”
“I know.”
“They will come for you differently now,” he said. “Subtler. Smarter.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Then stop standing in front of me.”
He studied her for a long moment.
“Stand beside me instead,” she continued.
Something shifted in him then—something ancient and rigid finally bending.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “But know this—if it comes down to one life—”
“I will not survive you choosing death over me,” she said firmly.
His jaw tightened.
“That is my boundary,” she added. “If you cross it, I walk away.”
The threat wasn’t loud.
It was lethal.
He exhaled slowly. “You would leave?”
“If you don’t value your life,” she said, “you don’t value what I chose.”
The silence that followed was heavy—but honest.
Finally, he nodded once.
“Then I will live,” he said. “For you.”
Her breath caught.
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to his.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not done fighting you yet.”
A low, tired laugh escaped him.
Outside, Sicily held its breath.
Because devotion had drawn blood.
And blood always demanded more.
- Writer
