The Mafia's Rose

The Waiting Man

Alessandro’s POV

The insistent ringing of the phone ripped through the darkness, shattering the fragile peace of sleep. I bolted upright in bed, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs, my senses on high alert. I grabbed the phone from the nightstand, my hand fumbling in the darkness, my voice a raspy growl.

"Speak," I demanded, my gaze sweeping over the darkened room.

"Lorenzo's been hit, Sandro," Marco's voice, usually calm and steady, was tight with urgency. "Ambush. Two blocks from the warehouse. He's heading to the Ospedale Santo Spirito. It's bad."

The blood drained from my face. Lorenzo. My brother. Shot. The familiar surge of anger, the cold fury that usually fuelled my actions, was replaced by a wave of icy fear, a sickening dread that I hadn't felt since... well, since her.

"I'm on my way," I rasped, my mind already racing. I couldn't lose Lorenzo. Not after Isabella. Not again.

I tossed the phone onto the bedside table and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The silk sheets felt cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the fire that now raged within me. I dressed quickly, pulling on a dark suit, my movements sharp and efficient. I grabbed my jacket and keys, the weight of the gun tucked into my waistband a familiar comfort.

As I sped through the deserted streets of Rome, the city lights blurring, the siren song of vengeance echoed in my ears. I pushed the car to its limits, the engine roaring, the tires screaming against the pavement. All that mattered was getting to Lorenzo, making sure he was alive, ensuring that history wouldn't repeat itself.

The sterile air of the hospital waiting room pressed down on me. My fear and anger were a tight knot in my chest. I paced, the leather of my jacket creaking, my gaze fixed on the double doors leading to the ambulance bay. Each time those doors swung open, my pulse quickened, a surge of anticipation mixed with a dread I couldn't shake.

I checked my watch. Five minutes. Five minutes since I'd arrived, five minutes that felt like an eternity. I wasn't a man accustomed to waiting. I made decisions, gave orders, controlled the game. But tonight, I was a pawn, my fate resting in the hands of the doctors and nurses behind those closed doors. Their grim faces, their hushed voices – a constant reminder of the fragility of life. Don't think about Isabella. Focus on Lorenzo.

My gaze swept over the empty waiting room, desperately seeking something to distract me from the gnawing fear. Plastic chairs, a flickering television, worn magazines. A woman sat behind the reception desk, her head bent over a crossword puzzle, a splash of bright lipstick in this sterile environment. Her gaze met mine, then darted away. Even behind this desk, I still have a way of making people nervous.

The automatic doors slid open, a gust of cool night air hitting my face. I didn't look up. Not yet. My focus was on those double doors. Waiting. Praying.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “Are you waiting for someone?”

I looked up. And for a moment, my breath caught in my throat. The nurse who stood before me, her pale blue scrubs a stark contrast to her dark hair pulled back from her face, could have been Isabella. The same delicate features, the same stubborn set to her jaw, the same way she held herself, a quiet strength that belied her slender frame. The only difference was her eyes. Isabella's had been warm, chocolate brown, filled with laughter and light. This woman's eyes were emerald green, flecked with gold, a glimmer of something wild and untamed in them. I felt something stir within me as I locked eyes with her.

"Si," I forced out, my voice rougher than intended.

"Is there anything I can get you? Water? Coffee?" she asked, her voice hesitant, her gaze flickering away from mine.

I shook my head. Her eyebrows drew downwards in a small act of defiance, and there was something about the way she did it… It drew me in, made me want to unwrap all her little secrets. Interest piqued, my gaze was drawn to the name tag pinned to her chest. "Illyana," I murmured, the name rolling off my tongue, both foreign and familiar.

"Yes," she said softly, her cheeks flushing under my gaze. "And you are...?"

"Alessandro," I replied, my eyes locking onto hers. "I'm waiting for someone."

My answer was clipped, dismissive. No need to reveal more than necessary. But as she retreated to her station, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension washed over me. Our paths would cross again. I felt it in my gut.

The rhythmic clatter of the nurses' station did little to break through the wall of silence I'd built around myself. But my gaze stayed on her, the nurse with the emerald eyes. Her presence, her quiet efficiency, had a calming effect I hadn't expected. The way she moved through the chaos of the ER, calm and efficient, intrigued me. The way her brow furrowed in concentration as she tended to a patient, her touch gentle yet sure - it stirred something within me. It was a protectiveness I hadn't felt since... well, since her.

I watched as she laughed softly with a colleague. The sound was like music in the sterile silence of the waiting room. I watched as she bent over a chart, her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers tracing the lines of a patient's medical history.

Just as dawn began to paint the sky with hues of pink and orange, the doors to the ambulance bay swung open. A gurney, its wheels squeaking against the polished floor, was rushed past me. I saw him, my brother, his face pale, his chest bandaged, his breathing shallow. Lorenzo. Shot, bleeding, fighting for his life because of me.

I followed the gurney, my heart pounding a heavy rhythm against my ribs, a mix of fear and anger churning in my gut. I didn't look back, but I could feel her gaze on me, the emerald-eyed nurse, Illyana. I was sure I’d see her again.