REPLACEMENT BRIDE

REPLACEMENT BRIDE


Antonio's POV

The stillness after a war was like none other. It wasn't peace, not really. It was hollow. As if the air itself held its breath, unsure of what was coming next. The island, that had been so filled with guns and the rage of war, was now strangely silent. There were bodies everywhere. Slumped. Bloody. Dead. And I couldn't help but look around and ask myself what this blasted piece of land had ever been in the first place. Lost in a thicket of forgotten territory, this island was a battlefield. A graveyard.

I walked through it all, the crackle of dried leaves and broken bone crunching beneath my boots as I walked towards the clearing. The two choppers we had rented buzzed softly overhead, waiting. My pleas had been dispatched through scant minutes after Nicholas had fallen. We had to move quickly.

Silvio hardly knew. Blood had clotted in his bandages, and he was basically deadweight. I carried him myself, didn't want anyone else to carry him. His skin was pale, his breaths shallow. He had lost so much blood that I thought him dead. But he wasn't. Not yet.

Martina was worse.

She was slipping in and out of awareness, clutching her abdomen in pain. My paramedics who were with me knew what they were doing. Qualified for this. Dependable. Worth it. Committed to the name. Our type of people. They told us she was hanging on, just barely. Her blood pressure was hanging by a thread. Her respiration strained. But she was resisting.

The first helicopter departed with Silvio, Martina, and two paramedics with enough blood bags and material to revive a dead man's heart.

The second flew away with Isabella, Marcello, and a few of the surviving footmen who had been wounded.

I stayed with the rest of the crew. We rounded up the injured, counted the dead, stood in silence. What is there to say? The island stank of smoke, gunpowder, and the cold smell of blood.

Within less than an hour, we were flying, far out over the coastline.

\---

Thanks for proofreading for me.

The one we had ended up at wasn't your usual hospital. It was built on secrecy, wrapped in layers of anonymity and contracts, run by people who didn't flinch when bloodied mafiosos walked in half-dead. It wasn't a hospital; it was a nod of understanding.

We set down firmly on the helipad, rotors churning dust and gravel as the medics rushed toward us. Paramedics ran like ants. Stretchers rolled down sleek hallways. Shouts. Footsteps. Flashing lights. Doors slamming open. It all moved so fast and then crawled to a stop.

I had cut down along side. Bullet grazed along ribs. Shoulder was dislocated. But none of that. Not when I see Silvio being wheeled away. Not when Martina's white face is rolled down the corridor, her head lolling over to one side.

They were alive. Barely.

And all I could do was pray that they made it.

\---
Naya Rice Martinez's POV

When I opened my eyes, waking up in a dream I was unfamiliar with.

The ceiling was white. Too white. Sterile. With the smell of antiseptics.

My head pounded.

Everything was heavy. My chest. My legs. My fingers. I was unable to move. Unable to speak.

And then I noticed him.

Silvio.

He was sitting beside me in a wheelchair, his head tilted to the side, sleeping. Bandages covered most of his face. His eyes were swollen, sunken, and his entire body slumped as if it had worn itself out attempting to sit upright. The only indication that he was alive was the soft rise and fall of his chest.

The pain hit me second. Scalding. Thrashing. My head. My abdomen.

I tried to move. I tried to sit up. But the pain speared through me like lightning and pulled me back down. I let out a strangled sound, and blackness took me over again.

\---

When I woke up the next time, it was quieter. There was still pain, but muffled. My throat was dry. My mouth tasted of metal. I turned my head cautiously. Silvio was gone.

Panic struggled at me.

Where was he?

I had to speak. To call him. But my voice refused. Only a rasp. A croak.

My fingers spasmed.

Then the door creaked open.

Silvio rolled in slowly, his eyes focusing on mine. He looked terrible. But he was here. His hands trembled as he rolled closer. The doctor followed him, a folder clutched tightly in his hand.

"Ms. Argento," the doctor began, gentle but authoritative. "I know it's been a tough week for you and your husband, but there are some things that we must discuss about your pregnancy."

My heart clutched.

I already knew.

I knew it the moment the shots rang out. The moment I was dragged across the floor, stamped upon, thrown, kicked, tossed about like a punching bag. There was no way our baby could have survived that.

I looked at the doctor, bracing myself.

Silvio said nothing. His face was unreadable. Still. Immobile.

The doctor sat down next to me.

"You lost a hazardous amount of blood, Ms. Argento," he told me. "And you're in a partial state of shock. But your vital signs are leveling out."

I didn't want to hear that. I wanted to hear about the baby.

"Now," he continued, spreading out the folder, "we're going to have you take it easy for a while. No long periods of standing. No bending. And above all—no stress."

My brow furrowed. I blinked.

Wait… what?

I rasped, trying to talk.

Silvio grasped my hand.

"Your baby is okay," the doctor said, smiling gently. "A fighter. Strong heartbeat. Very strong kicker. Must take after the father."

I gasped. My lungs burned. My heart was pounding.

Silvio finally spoke, his voice rough. "They said he's strong. Like you."

Tears pricked at my eyes.

Alive.

Our baby was alive.

I gagged on the sob that I was able to stifle. I wanted to say—anything—and could only grip Silvio's hand tightly.

The doctor stood up. "Everyone is recovering well. We are simply waiting for you to get stronger now. You take your time. There is no rush. You are safe."

He left, and we were alone.

Silvio stared at me, brushing hair out of my forehead with trembling hands. His eyes looked like he'd lost ten years. But they were warm now. Hopeful.

"You did that," he whispered. "You saved us. You made it."

A light laugh escaped dry lips.

"No," I whispered back. "We made it."

He leaned against me, head softly against mine.

Everything we'd been through—every cry, every bullet, every betrayal—had brought us to this moment.

Alive.

Together.

We survive
d.

And now, maybe… maybe even… we can begin again.

Wedded as a Replacement bride.

But loved as the only one who ever really counted.