Rare Blood

Rare Blood
Giovanni’s POV

I couldn’t shake it.

Lorenzo’s eyes. That smug, knowing glint when he’d said her name. Isabella. Like he had a right to it. Like he’d tasted it before. The bastard was up to something. I felt it in my gut, sharp and cold, the kind of instinct that had kept me alive this long. He hadn’t come to the mansion just to talk territory. He’d come to probe. To test my patience. To twist the knife and see how deep it could go before I bled.

I sat in the study, the same room where he’d stood hours ago, staring at the untouched whiskey glass in front of me. The amber liquid caught the light but did nothing to tempt me. The air still carried his cologne—faint, expensive, mocking. It clung to the curtains, to the leather chair, like a stain that refused to wash out. I wanted to burn the fucking room.

My jaw tightened.

I should’ve put a bullet in him when I had the chance.

My phone rang, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Carlo.

I answered on the second ring. “Speak.”

“Boss.” His voice was tight. Strained. “I fucked up. I know I wasn’t supposed to take the mistress out. Not without your direct order. I deserve whatever you give me. Kill me if you want.”

My blood went ice. “What happened?”

“There was a shooting. At the mall. The boy—Ricardo—he took a graze to the arm. Heavy bleeding. We’re at the hospital now. They rushed him into surgery.”

Her brother?

The words barely formed before my body reacted. I was already standing, chair scraping loudly against the floor, grabbing my keys off the desk.

“And Isabella?”

“She’s… losing it, boss. Crying. Begging. I’ve never seen her like this.”

Something ugly and violent twisted in my chest.

I was out the door before he finished the sentence. “Which hospital?”

“San Giovanni.”

“On my way.”

The drive was a blur. Tires screamed around corners. I ran reds without slowing, ignored horns, ignored everything except the image burned into my mind—Isabella on her knees, blood on her hands, screaming for help that might not come.

A shooting. In broad daylight. At a mall.

Lorenzo.

It had to be. The timing was too precise. He’d seen her. Looked at her like she was already his. Touched the air around her with his presence. And now this.

I gripped the wheel hard enough that my knuckles went white, the leather creaking under the pressure.

If that boy died…

No.

He wouldn’t.

I slammed into the hospital parking lot, tires smoking as I cut the engine. Security tried to stop me at the entrance. One look at my face—at the promise of violence there—and they stepped aside.

I stormed through corridors, boots echoing off polished floors, following signs to trauma. The smell hit me first—antiseptic, blood, fear. Carlo met me halfway, face pale, eyes shadowed.

“Where is she?”

“This way.”

He led me to a waiting area. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving. The sound drilled into my skull.

And there she was.

Isabella.

Curled in a plastic chair, knees drawn tight to her chest, face buried in blood-stained hands. Her dress—ruined beyond saving. Blonde hair tangled, streaked dark where it clung to her skin. Her shoulders shook with silent, broken sobs that tore straight through me.

My mother-in-law sat beside her, murmuring prayers under her breath, rosary clenched tight in her fingers. But Isabella didn’t hear a word of it.

Something in my chest cracked wide open. Not a clean break. A violent one.

I crossed the room in three strides and dropped to one knee in front of her.

“Isabella.”

She looked up. Eyes swollen, red-rimmed, unfocused. Tears cut pale tracks through the blood smeared on her cheeks.

“Giovanni,” she choked. My name broke on her lips like she’d been holding it in too long.

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled her into my arms, hard and close. She came willingly, collapsing against my chest, fingers clutching my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in a world that had turned liquid beneath her feet.

“Shh,” I murmured into her hair, pressing my mouth to the crown of her head. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine.”

She shook her head against me, frantic. “Save him. Please. He’s only five. He’s so small. There was so much blood—”

Her voice shattered completely.

I held her tighter, feeling her ribs tremble with each breath. “I will,” I said, the words absolute. “I swear. He’s going to be okay.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes wild, desperate. “They need blood. Rh-negative. It’s rare. They don’t have any. He’s losing too much—”

“I know.” I cupped her face, thumbs brushing under her eyes, wiping tears without caring about the blood staining my hands. “Carlo told me.”

She blinked, confusion cutting through the panic. “How—”

“I’m Rh-negative.”

Her breath hitched, sharp and broken. Fresh tears welled immediately.

“You… you can help him?”

“Yes.” I stood, bringing her with me. “Where’s the doctor?”

Carlo pointed to a man in scrubs approaching, clipboard tucked against his chest.

“Signore Donatelli?” the doctor asked cautiously.

I nodded once.

“We need to test you immediately. If you’re a match—”

“I am.”

He studied my face for a moment, then nodded and turned without another word.

They led me to a side room. Bright lights. Sterile walls. Needles and vials laid out with practiced efficiency. Questions fired at me—age, weight, medical history. I answered without hesitation.

Through the glass, I saw Isabella pacing. Hands twisting together. Arms wrapping around herself like she was holding her world in place by sheer will alone.

I hated it.

Hated her tears. Hated that she was crying over anyone. She shouldn’t cry. Not ever. Not for a boy. Not for anything.

But especially not like this.

The test came back fast. Match.

They hooked me up. A needle slid into my arm. Blood flowed steadily through the tube into waiting bags. Red. Thick. Life itself draining out of me to save his.

I stared at the line.

What were the chances?

Rh-negative. Rare as hell. One in fifteen, maybe less in Sicily.

And here I was. Able to save him.

Silently, I was grateful. In this twisted, fucked-up way, I could help her. Be the one she needed when everything else failed.

She’d look at me differently after this. Maybe.

The doctor returned. “We’re taking it to him now. He’s stable enough for the transfusion.”

I nodded. “Tell me when it’s done.”

Back in the waiting area, Isabella was sitting again, head buried in her hands.

I sat beside her. Pulled her against my shoulder.

She didn’t resist.

“He’s getting my blood now,” I said quietly.

She turned to me, eyes searching, fragile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my thumb lingering longer than necessary. “Just… stop crying.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was small. “I keep seeing the blood. His face when it hit.”

I tightened my arm around her. “He’s tough. He’ll pull through.”

She nodded against me, but didn’t speak.

Minutes passed. Or hours. Time lost its meaning.

Then something gnawed at me.

Rh-negative.

I knew two others with it.