All Chapters of The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The hospital smells of bleach and old pain.It is a specific, chemical scent that burns the inside of my nose, trying to mask the underlying odor of sickness and fear. But it can't mask the smell on me.I smell like copper. I smell like iron. I smell like Ciro.I am sitting on a plastic chair in the private waiting area of the Santa Lucia Hospital. It is a sterile box with white walls and flickering fluorescent lights that hum with a headache-inducing frequency. Bzzzzz.My hands are in my lap. They are stained red. The blood has dried, turning brown and flaky in the creases of my knuckles. It is under my fingernails. It has soaked into the knees of my jeans where I knelt on the crypt floor.I stare at my hands.That’s Ciro, I think. That’s his life on my skin.I don't wash it off. I can't. It feels like the only thing keeping him alive. As long as his blood is on me, he isn't gone.The double doors at the end of the corridor burst open.Bang.Two men storm in.Aureliano leads. He is s

The air in the room changes.It isn't just the beep of the monitor speeding up. It’s the feeling of a presence returning. A vacuum being filled.Ciro Vitale is back.His eyes are open. Black. Dilated. They are swimming in a haze of morphine and trauma, but underneath the fog, the predator is waking up.He doesn't look at the ceiling. He doesn't look at the IVs taped to his arm.He looks at me.His gaze locks onto my face like a targeting system. It is heavy. Physical. It pins me to the chair more effectively than any restraint."Graziella," he croaks.The sound is terrible. It is a rusty hinge scraping against bone. It is the sound of a throat that has been torn open by a scream that never came out."I’m here," I whisper.I lean forward. I grip his hand tighter. His skin is hot, burning with the fever of survival.The door opens behind me.Aureliano and Spadino rush in. They must have been watching through the glass, or maybe they just sensed the shift in the universe."Ciro!" Spadino

The silence in the small waiting room is absolute.Aureliano is backed against the door, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. He looks at me like I have just pulled a live grenade from my pocket and pulled the pin with my teeth.In a way, I have."Show me," he whispers.It is a command, but it lacks the usual steel. It is brittle. He is a man standing on a cracking frozen lake, asking to see the depth of the water below.I reach into the waistband of my jeans. My fingers brush the cold plastic of the burner phone.I pull it out.It is a cheap, disposable thing. A drug dealer’s phone. It looks ridiculous in this sterile, white room, held by a girl covered in dried blood.But it holds the end of his world.I unlock the screen. The light flares, harsh and blue.I navigate to the gallery.I step forward. I hold the phone up to his face."Look," I say.The first image is a blueprint. It is the floor plan of the Villa Igiea—the wedding venue.Red X's mark the exits. Red lines trace the perimet

The hospital room is quiet, but it is not peaceful. It is a courtroom, and the verdict is about to be read.Ciro is awake. He is propped up on pillows, his chest wrapped in thick bandages, his skin still pale from blood loss. But his eyes are clear. Black. Focused. He watches me like a hawk watches a mouse that has suddenly grown claws.Spadino is on the floor. He is sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, his back against the metal frame. He looks wrecked—his hair wild, his clothes rumpled, his eyes red-rimmed. He is the Wildcard who has played his last card and lost.Aureliano is standing. He is by the window, his silhouette sharp against the morning light. He is wearing a fresh suit, brought by an assistant, but he looks uncomfortable in it. He looks like a king who has lost his crown and is trying to remember how to stand without the weight of it.I am sitting in the chair by Ciro’s head.I am wearing jeans and a black t-shirt I stole from Spadino’s bag. My hair is a jagged b

The library floor is covered in an antique Persian rug. It is thick, woven with threads of deep crimson and gold. It has muffled the footsteps of three generations of Vitale men.Now, it is about to absorb the weight of their pride."Kneel," I said.The word hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. It isn't a suggestion. It is the final clause of the contract.Spadino doesn't hesitate.He drops.He falls to his knees so fast it looks like gravity suddenly increased around him. He lands with a soft thud on the wool. He doesn't look humiliated. He looks... relieved. He crawls toward me, stopping just short of my boots. He rests his hands on his thighs, his head bowed, waiting.He is the Wildcard, but he is also the youngest. He is used to following. And he has been looking for a master who won't break him for sport.Ciro is not in the room. He is in the ambulance, or maybe already being carried into the East Wing. But I feel his presence. I know where he stands. The man who took three bull