Chapter 18 The Medicine
They walked for two miles before Liam’s phone finally caught a signal.
The call he made was short, clipped, loaded with codes and coordinates Alessia didn’t entirely understand. Fifteen minutes later, a black SUV screeched to a stop. Finn, Liam’s most trusted man, climbed out, face pale at the sight of the blood.
“Boss,” Finn said, voice trembling. “Jesus Christ. What happened?”
“Ambush,” Liam said curtly. “Get us home. Now.”
The drive back to Manhattan was a haze.
Alessia leaned against the window, head throbbing in rhythm with her pulse. The world tilted sideways. She shut her eyes, trying to stop the spinning.
Concussion. She recognized the symptoms: nausea, dizziness, sensitivity to light and sound.
She needed rest. Medical attention. Ideally.
But she couldn’t go to a hospital. Too many questions.
Too many records.
“Alessia.”
Liam’s voice sliced through the fog.
“Hmm?”
“Stay awake. Look at me.”
She forced her eyes open. He was staring, unblinking, intensity pressed against her like a weight.
“I’m fine,” she murmured.
“You’re not fine. You have a concussion.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve had three,” he said, leaning forward, watching her pupils. “Your eyes are unfocused. You’re pale. You’ve been quiet for twenty minutes. Not normal for you.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled. “You think I talk too much?”
“I think you’re stubborn and won’t admit when you’re hurt.”
“Pot calling Kettle black.”
His lip twitched. Almost a smile. “Fair point.”
The rest of the drive passed in silence. Alessia fought to stay conscious, clinging to awareness, keeping the darkness at bay.
When they reached the penthouse, Liam had to help her out. Her legs refused to cooperate, the world spinning dangerously beneath her.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, arm around her waist, bearing most of her weight.
Up the elevator. Through the door. Alessia’s bedroom felt impossibly far away.
“Come on,” Liam said, guiding her toward the guest room in the common area. Closer. Easier to monitor.
He helped her onto the bed, removing her boots with practiced, efficient movements.
“I need to check your injuries properly,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened. “You were caught in an explosion. Shrapnel wounds, possible internal injuries, and a concussion. Let me look.”
Too exhausted to argue, she let him.
He was gentle, despite the urgency—checking her ribs, her arm, running careful hands over her skull, assessing for fractures or swelling.
“You need stitches,” he said finally, eyes on her arm.
“But that can wait. Right now, you need rest.”
“You need medical attention too,” she said, noticing the slow trickle of blood from his temple.
“I’ll handle it after you’re settled.”
He disappeared, returning with a first-aid kit, painkillers, and a glass of water.
“Take these,” he said, handing her two pills. She obeyed, too drained to argue.
Liam drew the blackout curtains, casting the room into soft darkness. He set a trash can by the bed—anticipating her nausea—and placed the water within reach.
“Sleep,” he ordered. “I’ll wake you every two hours. Standard concussion protocol.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” His eyes were serious. “Someone tried to kill us today. Until we know who and why, we’re safer together. Sleep. I’ll be right outside.”
He started to leave.
“Liam.”
He paused, looking back.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For… all this.”
Something flickered across his face. “Get some rest, Alessia.”
He left, door ajar so he could hear if she called.
Alessia sank into the pillows. Her body surrendered. She was asleep within seconds.
The dreams came in pieces.
Her mother’s face. Sofia Scarpetti laughing in sunlight, reaching for her.
Then falling. Always falling.
The stairs. The scream. The absolute silence.
Her father’s cold eyes. You saw nothing.
Alessia thrashed between sleep and wakefulness.
“Mama,” she whispered. “Mama, please…”
Hands—gentle, firm—on her shoulders. A voice low and soothing.
“Alessia. You’re safe. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
She fought to consciousness, gasping.
Liam sat at the edge of the bed, dim hallway light catching his face.
“You were having a nightmare,” he said softly.
Her heart raced, skin slick with sweat. “What time is it?”
“Two a.m. Check-in.” He held a small flashlight. “Pupils. Look at me.”
She did. Light danced briefly across each eye, him checking dilation, trauma.
“Good. Equal and responsive.” He set the flashlight aside. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was in an explosion.”
“Accurate.” He handed her water. She drank gratefully.
“Fever’s up,” he observed, pressing his hand to her forehead. “Not dangerous yet, but I’ll get you soup. Eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t care. You’re eating.”
He left before she could argue.
Alessia lay back, trying to separate dream from memory: the warehouse, the blast, the bodies.
Liam shielding her. Protecting her with his own body
.
Why did you do that? she thought. When you don’t trust me?
But she didn’t ask. The answer would be too complicated.
He returned with warm broth.
“Up,” he said. She struggled, and he propped pillows behind her back.
“I can feed myself,” she protested.
“Your hands are shaking.”
They were. She hadn’t noticed.
Too tired to argue, she let him spoon the broth into her mouth. Surreal—this dangerous, infuriating man, her enemy, feeding her with patience and care.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked after a few spoonfuls.
“Because you’re hurt.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He paused. “You saved my life today. Multiple times. The least I can do is make sure you don’t die here.”
“Practical.”
“Always.” But something lingered in his eyes beyond practicality.
She finished half the bowl before exhaustion overtook her.
“Sleep,” he said, setting it aside.
“You should sleep too.”
“I will. After I know you’re stable.”
Her eyes closed. She drifted off, half-aware of him settling in beside the bed.
The fever dreams returned, worse this time.
Her mother’s funeral. Closed casket. Father’s hand tight on her shoulder.
Years of silence, pretending, waiting.
Then—the kiss. Study. His mouth on hers. Desperate, confused, real.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered in sleep. “Please, don’t leave.”
“I’m here.”
The voice was real. Close.
“Liam?”
“I’m here,” he repeated. A warm hand held hers, grounding her.
She clung to it, even in dreams, as if it was the only thing keeping her from drowning.
When she woke, soft gray light filled the room. Dawn.
Head still throbbing, but world steady. Fever gone, leaving weakness and clarity.
Liam slept beside her chair, head tilted, gash on his temple cleaned and bandaged. Shirt torn, stained.
His hand loosely held hers. Not restraining. Not controlling. Just… holding.
Alessia’s chest tightened.
This man. Dangerous, broken, complicated. Who’d saved her life. Stayed through the night. Holding her hand like it was normal.
What are we doing? she wondered.
She didn’t pull away. Closed her eyes, feeling warmth through her wrist.
Pretending, just for this moment, that this could be real.
Even though she knew it couldn’t.
Even though she knew that when the truth came out, this fragile thing would shatter.
But for now. This quiet dawn. She let herself have it.
Just this once. Just for now.