Chapter 27: The Vow

The hallway felt longer than it had a right to be.

Each step I took echoed on the sterile tiles, the sound strangely loud in the muffled hum of the hospital. My hands were cold, my palms slick, and my chest felt like it was caving in. I’d been told she was gone, but some part of me—some stupid, desperate part—still thought maybe they were wrong. That if I just saw her, touched her, I’d feel warmth, hear her laugh, prove them all liars.

The nurse at the door didn’t say a word as she pushed it open.

The smell hit me first—sharp antiseptic mixed with something metallic and empty. It wasn’t the same coppery rush of fresh blood; it was faint, like the ghost of violence, clinging to everything.

I stepped inside.

The room was dim, a single fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead. Machines stood silent, their screens black. And there—on the narrow bed—she lay, still as stone, covered from head to toe with a white sheet.

For a moment, I just stared at that shape. My throat burned. My fingers twitched at my sides. The world felt muted, muffled, like someone had stuffed cotton into my ears. My own heartbeat was the only thing I could hear clearly.

I moved forward, my legs slow and heavy, until I was right beside her. My hands shook as I reached for the sheet. My voice was just a whisper—pointless, but I said it anyway.

“Camilla… it’s me.”

I pulled the sheet back.

Her face was pale. Too pale. Her lips—always painted with some bright, obnoxious color she swore made her look “dangerously kissable”—were now a faint, cracked gray. Her eyes were closed, lashes resting delicately against her skin, like she was sleeping. Only… she wasn’t breathing. And her skin…

Cold.

I froze when my fingertips brushed hers, the chill racing up my arm like ice water. That was the moment it truly sank in—she wasn’t here anymore. This body was just… the shell she’d left behind.

The sob ripped out of me before I could stop it. My knees buckled, hitting the cold floor hard, but I didn’t care. I grabbed her hand with both of mine, clutching it like I could force warmth back into it.

“This isn’t real,” I choked, tears falling hot and fast down my cheeks. “You… you can’t just leave like this, Camilla. Not you. Not my loudmouth, lipstick-obsessed, impossible best friend.”

My mind kept flashing back—her laugh so loud it made strangers stare, the way she’d drag me into trouble with a grin, the times she’d stood beside me when no one else would. And then—God—the image of her in that car tonight. The blood soaking that shirt. Her breath rasping. The way she’d been thrown.

Thrown.

Like she was nothing.

The memory hit me so hard my tears burned with something sharper—anger. That man… the one who’d grabbed her, yanked her in front of him, used her as a shield like she was disposable. I remembered the way her body went limp before he tossed her aside like trash.

I couldn’t breathe for a moment. My grief was suddenly tangled with rage so fierce my hands trembled.

I brushed my thumb over her cold knuckles. “They’re going to pay for this, Camilla,” I whispered, my voice shaking but low and certain. “Both of them. The bastard who pulled the trigger… and the coward who put you in the line of fire. They think they can just take you from me?” My teeth clenched. “They have no idea what they’ve done.”

I pressed my forehead to her hand, my tears soaking her skin. For a long time, I just stayed there, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume, letting it twist the knife in my chest.

Then—something shifted in me. The tears stopped. My chest still ached, but it wasn’t the kind of pain that crumpled me. It was the kind that solidified, like molten metal cooling into steel.

No more crying. No more begging the universe to rewind.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.

I kissed the back of her hand, slow, lingering. “I swear to you, I’ll make them regret breathing.” My voice was steady now. “Every second they have left will be spent looking over their shoulders, waiting for me.”

A noise outside broke through my thoughts—sharp, tense voices, footsteps quick and purposeful.

I frowned, straightening.

Another sound—Julia’s voice, raised, angry. And Rosetta’s, sharper than I’d ever heard it. My stomach knotted.

I pressed my lips to Camilla’s hand one last time. “I’ll be back,” I murmured, and gently laid it back on the bed. Pulling the sheet up to cover her again felt wrong, like I was tucking her away from the world. But I forced myself to do it.

Then I turned and pushed out the door.

The hallway was no longer quiet. Several men in sharp, dark suits stood there like a wall, their presence loud without a single word. They had that stillness—the kind that spoke of discipline, of being ready to act at a moment’s notice. Expensive watches, earpieces, polished shoes that clicked faintly when they shifted.

Julia was squared off with one of them, her arms crossed tight, her expression thunderous. Rosetta stood just behind her, pointing toward the ER doors with sharp jabs of her finger, clearly telling them exactly where they could shove their demands.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded, stepping forward.

Every head turned toward me.

And then I saw him.

Alessandro.

His dark hair was neatly slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his eyes—cold, unreadable, impossibly sharp—locked on me the moment I appeared. The hallway seemed to shrink, all the noise dulling until the only thing I could feel was the weight of his gaze.

For a second, no one moved. Then, in that voice—low, smooth, and cold enough to freeze the blood in my veins—he spoke.

“Miss Moretti,” he said. “Your father wants you home now.”