SHE MUST BE MINE.

episode 2 :The pull

The hospital was a battlefield at midnight, a chaos of beeping monitors and hurried footsteps. Sophia moved through it like a ghost, her hands steady as she pressed gauze to a gunshot wound, her mind a storm she refused to acknowledge. Three nights had passed since her run-in with Vincenzo Ricci, and yet his voice—low, taunting—still coiled in her thoughts, an unwelcome intruder she couldn’t banish. She hated it. Hated him. Hated the way her skin prickled every time she caught a shadow in her peripheral vision, half-expecting it to be him.

"Sophia, trauma bay four!” a nurse shouted, snapping her back. She nodded, shoving her unease down as she grabbed fresh gloves. But when she pushed through the double doors, her breath caught. The man on the gurney was one of his—a hulking figure with a familiar tattoo curling up his neck, a jagged s***h across his chest bleeding through the stretcher. She didn’t hesitate, her training kicking in, but her pulse thudded with a mix of dread and something sharper—anticipation.

“Knife fight,” the paramedic barked. “Lost a lot of blood. BP’s dropping.” Sophia worked fast, her hands a blur—pressure, stitches, orders shouted over the chaos. She saved him, barely, and as the monitors stabilized, she stepped back, her scrubs stained crimson, her chest tight. That’s when she felt it: the weight of eyes on her.

Vincenzo stood in the doorway, silent as death, his black coat blending into the dim light. His gaze wasn’t on his man—it was on her, piercing, unreadable. Her stomach flipped, but she squared her shoulders, peeling off her gloves with a snap. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, her voice clipped, though it wavered at the edges.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You saved another one,” he said, his tone deceptively soft, like silk over steel. “That’s twice now.” He stepped forward, the space between them shrinking, and the air thickened with something electric. “You’re good at fixing what I break.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m good at my job. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking it’s for you.” But her words felt brittle, undermined by the way his presence filled the room—overwhelming, inescapable. He was closer now, close enough that she could see the faint scar cutting through his brow, the flicker of something raw in his eyes. Not anger. Not amusement. Need.

“You’re lying,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. “You feel it too.” His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, not touching but close enough to make her flinch. “The pull.”

Sophia’s heart slammed against her ribs, a traitor giving her away. She stepped back, breaking the spell, her breath ragged. “You’re delusional,” she snapped, but it sounded weak even to her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

His lips curved, a half-smile that was all danger. “Keep telling yourself that, cara.” He reached into his coat, and for a split second, she thought—gun—but he pulled out a small velvet box instead, tossing it onto the counter beside her. “For your trouble.”

She didn’t touch it. “I don’t take bribes.”

“It’s not a bribe,” he said, turning toward the door. “It’s a promise.” And then he was gone, leaving her alone with the box and the dying echo of his words.

Her hands shook as she opened it later, against her better judgment. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, simple yet elegant, the kind of thing she might have chosen for herself—if it hadn’t come from him. A note slipped out, scrawled in sharp, commanding script: For the hands that mend. She stared at it, her throat tight, torn between throwing it away and the irrational urge to slip it onto her wrist. She didn’t. But she didn’t toss it either. It sat there, a quiet accusation, as she sank onto a chair, her resolve fraying.

Hours later, a scream shattered the hospital’s lull. Sophia bolted toward the sound, rounding a corner to find a man—another of Vincenzo’s, she’d bet—holding a nurse against the wall, a knife glinting at her throat. “Where’s Ricci’s guy?” he snarled. “Tell me, or she’s done!”

Sophia froze, her mind racing. The injured man was still in recovery—vulnerable, a target. She stepped forward, voice steady despite the fear clawing her insides. “Let her go. I’ll take you to him.” A lie, but it worked. The man released the nurse, turning the blade on her instead, and she led him down a hall, praying security would catch up.

They did—just in time. The man was tackled, the knife clattering away, but not before he hissed, “Tell Ricci his angel’s marked now.” The words sank into her like ice as she slumped against the wall, adrenaline crashing. Marked. Because of him. Because she’d saved his man. Because she couldn’t stop crossing his path.

That night, alone in her apartment, Sophia paced, the bracelet still untouched on her counter. She hated how her thoughts kept circling back to Vincenzo—the danger he brought, the way he looked at her like she was his to unravel. She should run. She should report him. But deep down, in a place she refused to name, a reckless part of her wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting the pull.