Chapter Five

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound breaking through the haze. Alessandro’s eyes fluttered open to a blur of white ceilings and antiseptic air. 

His chest burned where the bullets had torn through him, and for a moment, he wondered if this was purgatory — the sterile stillness, the dull hum of machines, the faint ache of being alive.

He hated hospitals. The smell of them, the way time seemed to stand still inside their walls. But he was alive — barely — and that fact alone irritated him.

He turned his head slightly—and blinked. His mother was sitting on the sofa. For a second, Alessandro simply stared, his mind slow to process what his eyes were seeing. 

Sarah Guidotti sat with perfect composure, one leg crossed over the other, a glossy magazine resting in her hands as if she had been there for hours and the world outside the room did not exist.

He wondered, briefly and seriously, if he was hallucinating. Nearly dying did strange things to the brain. Perhaps this was one of them. But then she lifted her head. Her jade-green eyes met his blue ones.

The illusion—if it was one—felt painfully real. For a small, suspended moment, neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain, as if both of them were waiting—waiting for the other to move first, speak first, react first. 

Alessandro felt something tighten faintly in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar feeling that he didn’t care to examine too closely.

It had been a long time since that day. A very long time. And yet, for the briefest, most dangerous moment, a thought crept into his mind.

Maybe… she had been worried. Maybe that was why she was here. Maybe…

Alessandro cleared his throat first and looked away, breaking the fragile moment before it could grow into something he would regret.

It was foolish to think like that. Still… he couldn’t deny the small, inconvenient warmth that had flickered in his chest. It was the first time in a long time he had felt—however faintly—like his existence might matter to someone.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Almost dying had a way of making a man sentimental.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” Sarah Guidotti said smoothly, rising from the sofa with the same effortless grace she carried everywhere. “You slept long enough.”

Alessandro let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Not long enough,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” She arched a brow, the sharp movement carrying the unmistakable challenge of a woman who expected to be obeyed.

For a moment, Alessandro met her gaze. A dozen sarcastic responses hovered at the tip of his tongue. The old irritation stirred instinctively, tempting him to say something deliberately provoking—something that would earn the cold look she had perfected over the years.

But he swallowed it. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. And the truth was, he had never really acted like one even when he had been. So he wasn’t about to start now.

“I’m alive,” he said flatly. “You can go now.”

“Good.” Sarah picked up her bag without hesitation, as if that had been the only confirmation she required. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere,” she added matter-of-factly.

Alessandro frowned slightly.

“I hired bodyguards for you.”

His brows pulled together more deeply. “I don’t think—”

“I didn’t say you could give your opinion on the matter.” Her voice cut through his words like a blade—sharp, clean, and final. “This conversation is over.” 

And just like that, she turned and walked out of the room. No hesitation. No backward glance. The door closed behind her with quiet finality.

Alessandro stared at the empty space she had left behind. For a moment, the room felt strangely hollow. Then he exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the pillows.

“Women…” he muttered with a tired sigh. “You can never understand them.”

Not that he intended to try. He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head faintly. No—he was quite certain of one thing. Understanding women was a puzzle he had absolutely no desire to solve.

A few days after waking from the coma, Alessandro Guidotti had already grown tired of the silence. The sterile white walls, the low hum of machines, the faint scent of disinfectant — it all grated on his nerves. 

Hospitals had never suited him; they were places for the weak, and he refused to feel weak.

He swung his legs off the bed, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. The doctor had told him he wasn’t ready to move yet, but Alessandro had never been one for permission. 

He reached for the silk robe folded neatly by the bedside and slipped it on, wincing slightly as the IV tugged at his wrist.

When the nurse returned with his medication, she froze. “Mr. Guidotti, you shouldn’t be out of bed yet—”

“I need air,” he interrupted calmly, already heading toward the door. His tone left no room for argument.

The private VIP ward opened into a long, quiet hallway lined with glass panels that overlooked the city. Night was falling outside; the lights from the skyline shimmered against the darkening sky. Alessandro walked slowly, his hand brushing against the cold metal rail for balance.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped. Ahead, by the nurses’ station, a woman stood clutching a small child in her arms. The girl’s breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps — the distinct sound of someone fighting for air. The mother’s voice trembled with desperation.

“Please,” she pleaded, “she can’t breathe. You can’t turn us away again.”

Her accent caught his ear first — soft, melodic — then her tone, fierce with the kind of fear only a parent could know.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the nurse said gently. “Your daughter’s case is severe. We can’t begin treatment without clearing the previous balance.”

The woman's arms tightened around her little girl. “She has asthma,” she whispered, panic lacing her words. “The inhaler isn’t working anymore. Please, she needs oxygen—just give her that, and I’ll find a way to pay.”

The child’s head drooped against her shoulder, and for a moment, everything else in the hallway seemed to fade — the soft beeping, the muted voices, even the pain in Alessandro’s chest. 

He had seen fear before — in boardrooms, in backrooms, in men who owed their lives to him — but never like this. This was pure, raw, human.

Without thinking, he spoke, moving closer. “Get the doctor.”

The nurse turned, startled. “Sir?”

He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on the child. “You heard me. Admit her. Whatever the balance is, send it to my account.”

The woman blinked, caught between disbelief and gratitude. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, her voice trembling. “You don’t even know us.”

He met her gaze, his tone even but firm. “No child should struggle to breathe because of a bill.”

She stared at him for a long moment — at the man standing there in a hospital robe, pale but unyielding, eyes as cold and steady as glass. 

Then, as the medical team rushed forward to take her daughter, her lips parted in a whisper she wasn’t sure he heard. “Thank you.”

Alessandro said nothing. He watched as they disappeared behind the emergency doors, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing in the corridor.

For a long time, he stood there, feeling the faint ache in his chest return — not just from the bullets, but from something he thought he’d buried long ago. Compassion.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against the wall. Maybe the doctors were right — maybe he shouldn’t have been out of bed. But somehow, this was the first time since waking up that he felt alive.