The Mafia's Rose

Illyana’s POV The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, a constant I’d grown accustomed to, filled the otherwise silent ER. Another quiet night in Rome. Who would have thought? I stifled a yawn, pushing a stray strand of my now-black hair behind my ear. It felt strange not to be blonde anymore, like looking at a stranger in the mirror, but it was a necessary change. A fresh start. Leaving Chicago had been an impulsive decision, a desperate attempt to outrun the ghosts of my past. Now, six months later, the ghosts were gone, but the feeling of being adrift remained. Rome was beautiful, chaotic, and utterly indifferent to my presence. I was just another face in the crowd, another nurse working the graveyard shift. The fluorescent lights seemed to amplify the emptiness of the waiting area. The plastic chairs, usually occupied by anxious faces and hushed whispers, were eerily vacant. Even the receptionist, a woman named Isabella with a penchant for gossip and brightly coloured lipstick, looked bored out of her mind. Just as I was about to pour myself another cup of lukewarm coffee at around 3am, the automatic doors slid open, ushering in a gust of cool night air and a man who seemed to carry the darkness of the night with him. He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained against the fabric of worn leather jacket, the kind that hinted at both a life lived and a body well-used. His hair, a shade of brown so dark it was almost black, was artfully tousled, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. But it was his eyes that held my attention – a piercing blue that seemed to see right through me, their intensity at odds with the restless energy that vibrated off him. He moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, I watched him from my post behind the nurses' station, curiosity stirring within me. He was handsome, undeniably so, with a raw, masculine energy that both intrigued and intimidated me. The way he moved, the way he held himself, there was a sense of barely contained power that made my breath catch in my throat. The minutes ticked by, each one punctuated by the sound of his shoes against the linoleum as he paced back and forth. He kept checking his watch, his jaw clenched tight, his impatience palpable. It was unlike anything I’d seen in a hospital waiting room. People were usually anxious, worried, but this… this felt different. This felt personal. Unable to ignore the nagging feeling in my gut, I pushed myself away from the counter. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice a soft intrusion in the silence. “Are you waiting for someone?” He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took me in. I felt a blush creep up my neck under his intense gaze. I was sure I looked a mess, my own green eyes probably bloodshot from the late hours, my black hair escaping its messy bun. “Si,” he finally replied, his voice deep and raspy, with a melodic Italian accent that raised goosebumps along my flesh. “Is there anything I can get you? Water? Coffee?” I asked, trying to ignore the way my heart pounded against my ribs. He shook his head, his gaze flickering down to my name tag. “Illyana,” he murmured, testing the name on his tongue. “Yes,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And you are…?” “Alessandro,” he replied, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I’m waiting for someone.” His answer was clipped, dismissive, and yet, there was something in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that belied his gruff exterior. I wanted to ask who he was waiting for, if everything was alright, but something told me I’d already crossed a line. “Okay,” I said softly, slightly disappointed that our conversation would be ending here. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know.” He offered a curt nod, his gaze returning to his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap. I retreated to my station, the feeling of his eyes on my back making my skin tingle. The pile of paperwork sat on my desk was calling my name, but no matter how hard I tried to focus on my tasks, I couldn’t shake the feelings inside that the brooding man in the waiting room had stirred within me. Who was he waiting for? And why had his presence excited me so much? Just as dawn was beginning to paint the sky with hues of pink and orange, the familiar wail of an ambulance siren pierced the quiet. I watched as the paramedics rushed a stretcher through the automatic doors, their faces grim, their movements urgent. And then I saw him, Alessandro, right behind them, his face etched with a stark, raw worry I hadn’t seen before. He didn’t spare me a glance as he followed the stretcher, disappearing behind the double doors that led to the trauma bay. My heart lurched. Whoever he was waiting for, it wasn't a social call. This was serious. I tried to push down the wave of anxiety that threatened to engulf me, reminding myself it was none of my business. But the image of Alessandro’s worried face, a stark contrast to his earlier aloofness, stuck with me. The rest of my shift dragged by. Sofia, my fellow nurse and the closest thing I had to a friend in Rome, tried to engage me in our usual post-shift gossip, but my heart wasn't in it. I gave her vague answers, my mind replaying Alessandro’s intense gaze and the worried clench of his jaw. "You're smitten," Sofia teased, nudging me with her elbow. "Never seen you so interested in a patient's plus one." "I'm not smitten," I retorted, but the heat creeping up my neck betrayed me. "He's just...intense." Sofia, with the wisdom that came from years of working in the ER and witnessing a parade of human drama, just raised an eyebrow at me. "Intense, huh? That's one word for it." I knew she was dying to pry, to dissect every detail of Alessandro’s presence, but I couldn't bring myself to talk about him. It felt too personal, too intrusive. Besides, what was there to say? I'd exchanged a handful of words with a brooding stranger in an empty waiting room. That hardly qualified as a story, let alone something to dissect with a friend. The bus ride back to my tiny apartment was a blur of exhaustion and the lingering memory of Alessandro’s blue eyes. I pushed the thoughts away as I unlocked my door, the familiar musty scent of the building washing over me. It wasn't much, but it was mine. A small, safe haven in a city that still felt overwhelmingly foreign. Exhaustion finally claimed me, and I collapsed onto my lumpy mattress, the events of the night swirling in my mind. Just as I drifted off, a wave of unease washed over me, the feeling of being watched prickling at the back of my neck. I sat up, my heart pounding, but the only sound was the distant hum of traffic. "Just your imagination, Illy," I muttered to myself, sinking back into the pillows. But sleep, when it finally came, was not a respite.