THE DON'S QUEEN

CHAPTER 6: THE QUEEN’S VOW

The machines didn’t stop screaming.

Ava’s hands were covered in his blood. It was warm. Too warm. It soaked through her shirt, sticky and metallic, and she pressed both palms to Lucian’s chest like she could hold him together by force. Like her hands were stitches. Like love was a tourniquet.

"BP is 60 over 40!" a nurse shouted. "He’s crashing!"

Doctor Patel shoved Ava back. Gently. Professional. But she didn’t move. Queens don’t move for kings. They stand with them. Even when the floor is slick with blood.

"Then get it without touching me," she snarled. Her voice didn’t shake. It couldn’t. If it did, she’d break. And if she broke, Sofia would have no one.

Vincent had Lucian’s head in his lap, one hand holding pressure on the wound, the other barking orders into his phone. "Prep OR 3. I want Rossi on the table. Now. Tell him if Kade dies, I’m coming for his family next. And I won’t be asking."

Patel looked at Vincent. Then at Ava. Then at the blood pooling on the NICU tile. "He’s lost too much. We need to move him—"

"No." Ava’s voice cut the room in half. Clean. Cold. She looked down at Lucian. His lips were blue. The color of drowning. "You stabilize him here. Or I make sure this hospital never sees another Ricci donation again. Or a Kade one. Pick."

The NICU went silent. Except for Sofia’s monitor.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Ninety-six. Steady.

Lucian’s eyes fluttered. Fought. Found Ava’s. "Hey," he mouthed. No sound. Just breath.

"Don’t you dare," she whispered. She dropped to her knees beside him, not caring about the blood. "You promised me a lifetime. You don’t get to give me three days and a funeral. You hear me?"

His hand twitched. Barely lifted. It landed on her stomach. Where their daughter had been five days ago. Where the scar was still fresh.

"I kept her safe," he rasped. Each word cost him. "I kept you safe."

"You didn’t keep yourself safe." Tears now. Hot. Angry. Queens cry when their kings are dying, and nobody gets to judge them for it. "You’re an i***t, Lucian Kade."

He smiled. Blood on his teeth. On his chin. "Your idiot."

Then his eyes rolled back. His body went slack.

"Code blue!" Patel shouted. "Get her out of here!"

Vincent grabbed Ava by the shoulders. Not rough. Not gentle. Desperate. "Ava. He needs doctors. Let them work."

She let him pull her back one step. Two. But she didn’t take her eyes off Lucian as they lifted him onto a gurney. As Patel started chest compressions right there on the tile. As Rossi came running down the hall, already pulling on gloves.

"Stay with Sofia," Vincent said. "He’d want you with her."

Ava nodded. Mechanically. But she wasn’t with Sofia. She was with him. In that OR. In every cut, every stitch, every second they took him from her.

---

They wouldn’t let her in the OR.

Ava paced the NICU like a caged wolf. Back and forth. Ten steps to the incubator. Ten steps to the door. The blood on her shirt had dried. It cracked when she moved.

Tony was awake now, in a chair Maria had dragged in. Elena asleep on his chest, a small bandage on her temple hiding seven stitches. His own chest was wrapped, face stitched from the crash, but his eyes were clear. Sharp.

Maria prayed in Italian. Rosary beads clicking between her fingers. She didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. Her prayers were for all of them.

Vincent stood by the window. Phone to his ear. Back rigid. Face stone. He’d made seventeen calls in twenty minutes. No one said no to him tonight.

"Well?" Ava demanded. The word was raw. Ripped from her throat.

"Rossi’s in there," Vincent said. He didn’t turn around. "Best trauma surgeon on the East Coast. Owed Lucian three favors. This is all three."

"And?"

"And he took two bullets to the gut." Vincent finally looked at her. His eyes were red. Vincent never cried. "Liver nicked. Colon perforated. Internal bleeding. They’re trying to find it all before he bleeds out."

Sofia’s monitor beeped. Ninety-seven. Up one.

Ava turned to the incubator. Her daughter. One pound, five ounces of miracle. Tubes in her nose. Wires on her chest. But fighting. Always fighting.

She pressed her forehead to the glass. It was cool. The only cool thing in the room. "Your daddy is the dumbest, bravest man alive," she whispered. "And if he dies, I’m going to kill him myself. Then I’m going to bring him back just to yell at him again."

Tony coughed. It sounded like a laugh. Or a sob. "That’s love, Ava."

"No." She straightened. Her spine was steel now. "This is war. And I just became the general."

She looked at Vincent. "Get me Rossi’s number. And the number for every captain we have from here to Miami."

"Why?"

"Because I’m not sitting here praying." Her eyes were dry now. Hard. Dry ice. "He started this war for us. For her." She nodded at Sofia. "I’m ending it for him. Call every captain. Every soldier. Every cop on our payroll. Every judge. I want every Ricci asset seized by sunrise. Legal or not. I want their bank accounts frozen. Their boats burned. Their safehouses raided. I want Sal Ricci’s name erased from this city before Lucian wakes up."

Vincent stared. For three seconds. Three seconds where he saw Ava Kade, not Mrs. Kade. Not the girl Lucian married. The queen he made.

"Ava—"

"Don’t ‘Ava’ me." She stepped closer. She was five-six. He was six-four. It didn’t matter. "He built an empire to protect us. I’m not letting it fall because he’s on a table. He said the Don changed the rules. Fine. The Queen just burned the rulebook. And the library."

Vincent studied her. Then he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. The same smile Lucian wore before he ended people. Before he ended problems.

"Yes, ma’am." He put the phone to his ear. "Carlo? It’s Vincent. Put me through to the crew. All of them. The Queen has orders."

Maria stopped praying. Looked up. She saw Ava and did the thing no one had done in twenty years.

She curtsied. Small. From her chair.

"Regina," Maria whispered. Queen.

---

Dawn came again.

Ava hadn’t slept. Hadn’t sat. Hadn’t eaten. She stood between two worlds — Sofia’s incubator on one side, the OR doors on the other. Tony had finally passed out from the pain meds they forced on him. Elena was in the nursery with a nurse. Maria had gone to make calls of her own.

At 6:17 AM, Doctor Rossi walked out. Scrubs soaked red to the knees. Face gray with exhaustion. Twelve hours. He’d been in there twelve hours.

Ava didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. "Say it."

Rossi pulled off his mask. His hands shook. "He’s alive."

Ava’s knees didn’t buckle. Queens don’t fall. Not when everyone’s watching. "And?"

"And he’s not waking up yet. Coma. Could be hours. Could be days. Could be..." Rossi rubbed his eyes. "The bullets missed his spine. Missed his heart by two centimeters. But he lost too much blood. His body shut down to save itself. It’s what we call traumatic shock. We’ve stabilized him, but the next 24 hours are critical."

Vincent was there. Appeared like a ghost. "When can we see him?"

"ICU. One at a time. Five minutes. No exceptions. He’s intubated. On a ventilator." Rossi looked at Ava. Really looked. "He was asking for you. Before we put him under. Anesthesia was wearing off and he fought it. Kept saying one word. Over and over."

Ava’s throat closed. Her heart was a fist. "What word?"

Rossi smiled. Tired. Human. "Queen."

---

Lucian looked small.

That was Ava’s first thought. It was wrong. Impossible. But true. The scariest man in New York, the man who made grown killers piss themselves, was hooked to machines. Chest rising and falling with a ventilator. Tubes in his throat, his nose, his arms. Bruises on his face she hadn’t seen before. A cut on his lip. Stitches on his jaw.

The room smelled like antiseptic and death.

She sat. The chair was plastic. Cold. She took his hand. It was cold too. And heavy. Not his hand. Not really.

"Hi," she whispered. Her voice broke on the one word.

Nothing. Just the hiss of the ventilator. The beep of the heart monitor. Slow. Too slow.

"I told Sofia you were an i***t," she said. She needed to talk. If she stopped, she’d scream. "She agreed. She kicked for the first time when I said it. Little brat. Takes after her father."

Nothing.

"I made Vincent burn the Ricci shipping yards. All three. In Jersey, Brooklyn, and the one in Miami. FBI’s calling it gang violence. Arson. I’m calling it a wedding present. A late one." She squeezed his hand. No response. "You wake up, and I’ll let you yell at me for it. You can ground me. Take away my credit cards. Whatever dons do. Just wake up."

His finger twitched.

Ava froze. Stopped breathing. "Lucian?"

His eyelids fluttered. Struggling. Like he was underwater and the surface was a mile up.

"Lucian, I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not leaving." She leaned over, her forehead to his. "You don’t get to die. Not after I just learned how to rule. Not after I just figured out I like it."

His lips moved. No sound. Dry. Cracked. Then—

"Come... home."

The same two words from the NICU. The same promise.

Ava broke. She pressed her forehead to his hand and sobbed. Not pretty. Not quiet. The kind of crying that comes from war. From loss. From almost. It tore out of her, ugly and loud.

A nurse touched her shoulder. Gentle. Apologetic. "Five minutes is up, Mrs. Kade. I’m sorry."

Ava stood. Wiped her face with the back of her hand. Smeared blood and tears. She kissed his knuckles. Tasted antiseptic and salt and him.

"I’m not going home," she told him. Her voice was steady again. Forged. "Not without you. Not ever. So you better wake up. Because I’m done being the queen of an empty kingdom. And Sofia needs her daddy. And I need my husband."

She walked out. Back straight. Chin up. Blood on her shirt. War in her eyes.

Vincent was waiting. "Orders?"

Ava looked at Sofia’s NICU down the hall. Then at the ICU behind her. Then at the city outside the window. New York. Theirs.

"Double security on both floors," she said. "I want men I trust. Men who bled for him. No one gets within twenty feet without Vincent or me saying so." She paused. "And call our lawyer. Harris. If Lucian’s sleeping, I’m signing contracts. I want access to every account. Every deed. Every shell company. The Don’s Queen runs the empire now. Until he wakes up."

Vincent bowed his head. Not to the Don. Not this time.

To her.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

---

The next twelve hours were hell.

Ava signed papers. She listened to Vincent’s reports. The Ricci yards were ash. Their offshore accounts were frozen. Sal Ricci was dead — Vincent didn’t say how, and she didn’t ask. She fed Elena a bottle. She changed her diaper. She sang to Sofia through the glass. She didn’t sleep.

At 9 PM, Tony woke up screaming. Pain. Phantom pain. Maria held him until he stopped.

At 11 PM, Sofia’s oxygen dipped to ninety-three. Patel adjusted her vent. It climbed back to ninety-six.

At 1 AM, Vincent came back from the city. His knuckles were split. New blood. "It’s done," he said. "The family’s gone. The rest are running. No one will touch you. Or her. Or him. Ever again."

Ava nodded. "Good."

At 2 AM, she went back to the ICU. Sat for five minutes. Talked. He didn’t move.

At 3 AM, she was back in the NICU. Her chair pulled up to Sofia’s incubator. Her hand on the glass.

"Your daddy’s sleeping," she told Sofia. "But he’s dreaming of us. I know it. He’s too stubborn to die. He’s too in love with us to leave."

Sofia’s oxygen hit ninety-eight that night.

Lucian’s didn’t.

But at 3:04 AM, in the ICU three doors down, his finger moved again.

The nurse saw it. Logged it. Called it a reflex.

It wasn’t.

It reached across the white blanket. Across the space where Ava had been. And curled.

Like he was holding her hand.

Like he was reaching for Ava’s.