Chapter Six

The steady rhythm of the heart monitor had become the background music of Alessandro Guidotti’s days; Beep. Beep. Beep. A few days earlier, the sound had meant nothing to him. He had been floating somewhere in darkness, trapped in a deep, endless sleep. 

Now it was proof that he was still here—still breathing, still alive after someone had tried to put a bullet in him outside his own restaurant.

Alessandro shifted slightly against the stiff hospital pillow, the movement sending a dull ache through his shoulder where the second bullet had grazed him. 

The doctors had said he was lucky. Another inch and the shot might have torn through something vital.

Lucky.

He didn’t feel lucky.

A knock came on the half-open hospital door before two men stepped inside. Both wore dark outfits and expressions that immediately screamed law enforcement.

Alessandro sighed quietly. Detectives.

“Mr. Guidotti?” the older one said.

Alessandro nodded slowly. “That would be me.”

The younger detective stepped closer to the bed while the older one pulled a small notebook from his jacket.

“I’m Detective Russo, and this is Detective Hale,” the older man said. “We’re investigating the shooting outside your restaurant—the Golden Glass.”

Alessandro’s gaze drifted briefly to the window before returning to them. “I figured,” he said dryly. “It's hard to miss that kind of headline.”

Russo studied him for a moment, perhaps measuring how coherent he was.

“We’ll keep this short,” Russo said. “The doctors told us you’re recovering but shouldn’t be stressed.”

Alessandro almost laughed at that. Getting shot tended to be stressful.

“Do you remember anything about the night of the attack?” Hale asked.

Alessandro thought back. The cool night air. The golden lights of the restaurant reflecting off the glass doors. The sudden crack of gunfire. And then— Darkness.

“Not much,” Alessandro admitted. “I was leaving the restaurant. Then there was a loud bang. The next thing I remember is waking up here.”

Russo scribbled something down. “Did you see the shooter?”

“No.”

“Anyone acting suspicious that evening?”

Alessandro shook his head. “Nothing unusual.”

The detectives exchanged a quick look. Russo closed his notebook halfway.

“Mr. Guidotti,” he said carefully, “Golden Glass is one of the most successful restaurants in the city. High profile business owners sometimes attract attention. Competitors, disgruntled employees, business rivals.”

Translation: enemies.

Alessandro leaned his head slightly against the pillow. His mind, uninvited, drifted to one person; Sienna. The memory of her face flashed across his thoughts—the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the heartbreak the last time they had spoken. 

After all, he had been the one to end things. The thought lingered in Alessandro’s mind like an unwelcome echo. Sienna had done something most people would never dare—she had put herself on the line and proposed to him. 

No games, no subtle hints. She had stepped forward with complete certainty, offering him something real. And he had rejected her.

Alessandro’s jaw tightened slightly against the pillow as the memory resurfaced.

You could have handled that better, he admitted silently.

At the time, it had felt like the only logical choice. Their lives, their ambitions, the expectations surrounding the Guidotti name—none of it aligned with what she had wanted.

Ending it had seemed cleaner than dragging her into a future he wasn’t prepared to give. But logic didn’t erase humiliation. And humiliation could be a dangerous thing.

There was that old saying people liked to repeat—hell hath no fury like a scorned woman.

Alessandro exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling as the possibility twisted uneasily in his mind. The scenario assembled itself piece by piece in his thoughts, uninvited but disturbingly plausible. 

She could have arranged it easily enough—hired men waiting outside the restaurant, watching, ready to act if he didn’t bend to whatever plan she had been pushing.

And he hadn’t. He had refused her. Refused the future she had tried to force into existence. His fingers curled slightly against the hospital sheets.

If she had truly wanted him dead… then the men outside the Golden Glass might not have been acting on their own at all. They might have been waiting for one thing.

Her order.

Could Sienna really have done something like that? Could she have been the one behind the shooting?

He didn’t know. He wasn't certain. And that uncertainty irritated him more than the wound in his shoulder and chest.

Alessandro stared at the detectives. “As a businessman,” he said slowly, “I’m bound to have enemies.”

Hale crossed his arms. “Anyone specific?”

Sienna’s name hovered on the tip of Alessandro’s tongue. He pictured the detectives dragging her into an interrogation room. Bright lights. Endless questions.

His jaw tightened. No. Not yet.

“None that come to mind,” he said calmly.

Russo studied him again, as if trying to determine whether he was lying. Alessandro met the man’s gaze evenly. Years of negotiating deals had taught him how to keep his face neutral.

Finally Russo sighed softly. “If you remember anything,” he said, slipping the notebook back into his pocket, “anything at all—call us.” he dropped his card on the bedside table.

“I will.” Alessandro said.

The detectives nodded and turned toward the door. Hale paused briefly before leaving. “Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Guidotti,” he said bluntly. “If you know something, it’s in your best interest to speak up.”

Alessandro said nothing.

The door closed behind them. Silence returned to the room. Alessandro exhaled slowly.

Sienna.

His fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheet.

Could she really hate him that much?

The thought unsettled him. Before he could sink deeper into the question, the door opened again. This time the man who walked in didn’t bother knocking.

Giovanni Guidotti.

Alessandro immediately felt his mood sour. His father looked immaculate as always—perfect suit, polished shoes, not a strand of gray hair out of place. 

He looked less like a man visiting his son in the hospital and more like someone on his way to a board meeting. Giovanni glanced at the monitors briefly before looking at Alessandro.

“You look awake,” he said.

Not how are you. Not are you alright. Just an observation.

Alessandro forced a thin smile. “Good to see you too, Father.”

Giovanni pulled a chair slightly closer to the bed but didn’t sit immediately. “The doctors say you’ll recover,” he said.

It sounded less like concern and more like reading a weather report. Alessandro stared at him. For a moment he wondered if Giovanni had ever actually worried about him.

“Lucky me,” Alessandro muttered.

Giovanni finally sat. “I assume the police were here.”

“They just left.”

“What did you tell them?” Giovanni asked.

The question left his mouth with the same flat, detached tone he used when discussing quarterly reports or stock fluctuations, as though the subject carried no real weight for him. 

There was no curiosity in his voice, no trace of concern about the fact that his son had been lying unconscious only days ago after someone had tried to kill him.

To Giovanni, it sounded like a routine inquiry—something to fill the silence rather than something he genuinely cared about. Alessandro noticed it immediately.

He watched his father for a moment, studying the calm expression on the older man’s face. There was no urgency there, no lingering tension in his shoulders, none of the unease that should come with knowing your son had been shot outside his own restaurant.

It was almost impressive how little Giovanni seemed to care about the details. The question hung in the air between them, but the indifference behind it was impossible to miss.

“The truth.”

Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “That you have enemies?”

Alessandro gave a small humorless laugh. “That seemed sufficient.”

Giovanni nodded once, as if the conversation bored him already. Then he said the one thing that instantly darkened Alessandro’s mood.

“Your blind date list is still pending.”

Alessandro blinked. “You came to the hospital,” he said slowly, “to remind me about that?”

Giovanni looked mildly puzzled by his tone. “You’ve already delayed the meetings twice. Your condition shouldn’t prevent you from reviewing the candidates.”

Alessandro stared at him in disbelief. He had been shot. Put into a coma. And his father was worried about a list of potential wives.

A bitter feeling crept into Alessandro’s chest. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.

Giovanni ignored the comment. “The family name requires stability,” he continued calmly. “Marriage is the logical next step.”

Alessandro felt irritation rising behind his ribs. Of course. In Giovanni’s world, even near death was merely an inconvenience.

Alessandro leaned back into the pillow, suddenly exhausted. “Next time,” he said flatly, “maybe bring flowers instead of a spreadsheet.”

Giovanni simply looked at him. Clearly missing the point.