The silence was the loudest sound of all.
Elena’s room—once a private sanctum of tension and unspoken desire—now felt like a shrine to fragility. Dim lighting cast soft shadows along the walls. The scent of antiseptic clung stubbornly to the air, mingling with the faint traces of gunpowder still woven into the fibers of Alessandro’s clothes. Machines hummed beside the bed, each beep and flicker a lifeline tethering her to this world.
Alessandro hadn’t left her side.
Not since she was carried in—half-conscious, blood soaking through his shirt as he held her tighter than he ever had before.
Not since the surgeon’s hands shook beneath the pressure of keeping the DeLuca bride alive.
Not since he had nearly lost her.
Now he sat in a chair beside her, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled
