The Mafia's Rose

Hidden Scars

Illyana’s POV

The following days were a blur of caffeine-fuelled shifts and fitful sleep. The memory of that night, of Alessandro’s unexpected appearance and his parting words, lingered like a ghost, both comforting and unsettling. I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that my carefully constructed routine had been disrupted, and I wasn't sure if I should be terrified or strangely exhilarated.

Sofia, ever the perceptive one, noticed my distraction. "He's got you all messed up, doesn't he?" she said one evening, her brow arched as she dabbed at a smudge of mascara in the staff room mirror.

'He' being Alessandro, of course. We hadn't spoken his name aloud, but he was the silent spectre looming over our conversations, the invisible thread connecting my disjointed thoughts.

"It's not like that," I mumbled, busying myself with restocking bandages, my cheeks warming under her knowing gaze.

"Right," she drawled, her tone sceptical. "Because a handsome, brooding stranger saving you from a mugging and then disappearing into the night screams 'platonic'?"

I sighed, defeated. There was no use denying it. Alessandro had gotten under my skin in a way no one ever had before. But it was more than just his looks, or the way he made my pulse race with a single glance. It was the mystery surrounding him, the way he could be both intimidating and strangely gentle, the way he seemed to see right through me, to a part of myself I hadn't realized was hidden.

"It's just..." I started, then stopped, unsure how to articulate the jumble of emotions swirling inside me. How could I explain that every time someone got close, a phantom weight settled on my chest, a premonition of being trapped, caged? It was irrational, this fear that stemmed from a past I desperately wanted to outrun, but it was as real as the stethoscope cold against my skin.

Sofia, bless her soul, didn't push for an explanation. She simply offered a knowing smile and a reassuring squeeze of my arm. "He'll be back," she said, her voice laced with a certainty that surprised me. "And when he does, you'll figure it out."

Part of me hoped she was right. Another part, the part still clinging to the safety of my carefully constructed walls, wished he would just stay gone. He was a disruption, a complication I couldn't afford, not now, not when I was finally starting to feel settled in this new life I was building for myself, a life where I was free to choose my own path.

The ER doors swung open, interrupting my thoughts and ushering in a flurry of activity. A young boy, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, was wheeled in, his face contorted in pain, his parents trailing behind him, their faces etched with worry.

The familiar adrenaline rush of a crisis kicked in, pushing all thoughts of Alessandro and my confusing feelings to the back of my mind. This was my world, the world of beeping machines and antiseptic smells, of pain and fear and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I could make a difference.

As I helped prep the boy for surgery, Dr. Marco Rossi, one of the ER's attending physicians, hovered nearby, his dark eyes watching my every move with an intensity that, while flattering, set my teeth on edge.

"You have a way with them," he said, his voice a smooth baritone that always seemed to send a shiver down my spine.

Dr. Rossi was a handsome man, in a classic, Italian-doctor kind of way. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, piercing brown eyes, and a smile that could charm the birds from the trees. He'd made his interest in me clear from the moment I'd arrived at the hospital, much to Sofia's amusement.

"Just doing my job," I replied, my tone deliberately neutral, taking a step back to create more space between us. It wasn't that I disliked Dr. Rossi. He was kind, capable, everything on paper that should have appealed to me. But every time he looked at me with that hopeful glint in his eyes, a wave of panic washed over me, a visceral reminder of why I'd fled Chicago, why I couldn't let myself be anyone's haven, anyone's fixed point in the world.

The surgery was a success, and as I wheeled the boy out to recovery, his small hand clutching mine, a sense of accomplishment washed over me. This was why I did what I did, why I subjected myself to the long hours and the emotional rollercoaster that came with working in the ER. It was a world where I could make a difference, a world where I could focus on healing others, a convenient distraction from the fear of someone trying to "heal" me, to fix me, to fit me into a life I didn't choose.

As I headed back to the nurses' station, Sofia met me with a knowing smirk. "Dr. Rossi was practically drooling over you in there," she whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help but smile faintly. "He's a nice man," I said, my tone deliberately vague, hoping to steer the conversation away from the handsome doctor and my lack of romantic interest.

Sofia, however, was not easily deterred. "He's smitten," she corrected, her voice laced with amusement. "And you, my friend, are completely oblivious. Or," she added, her eyes narrowing playfully, "avoidant."

I busied myself with re-organising a tray of medical supplies, hoping she wouldn't notice the heat creeping up my neck. "I'm not being avoidant," I mumbled, more to myself than to her. "I'm just...cautious."

Sofia leaned against the counter, her gaze turning serious. "What happened back in Chicago, Illy? You can tell me, you know. You've been here six months, and I still feel like I barely know you."

Her words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken concern. I knew she meant well, that she genuinely cared, and for a fleeting moment, I was tempted to confide in her, to share the burden of my past. But the words wouldn't come, the fear of voicing them aloud, of giving them power, kept me silent.

"It's nothing," I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. "Just...a bad breakup."

It was a lie, of course, but it was easier than explaining the suffocating pressure of my brother's expectations, the relentless pursuit of a man who saw me as a prize to be won, not a person with dreams and desires of her own.

Sofia, wise as ever, didn't press. She simply squeezed my hand, her touch conveying a depth of understanding that transcended words. "Whatever it is, it's okay to be scared," she said softly. "Just don't let it stop you from living your life."

Her words struck a chord deep within me, a poignant reminder that I'd come to Rome to escape the fear, to reclaim my life. I couldn't let the ghosts of my past dictate my future, couldn't let them rob me of the chance to find happiness, even if it meant taking a chance on someone like Alessandro, someone who both intrigued and terrified me in equal measure.

The rest of the shift passed in a flurry of activity, a welcome distraction from my tangled thoughts. But as I rode the bus home that night, the city lights blurring past the window, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was at a crossroads. One path led back to the safety of my solitary life, predictable and controlled. The other… the other led towards the unknown, towards Alessandro and the exhilarating, terrifying possibilities he represented.

And for the first time, I wasn't sure which path I wanted to take.