Chapter 19 Amelia
Amelia
I hurt everywhere. It feels as if my entire body has been dragged through fire and left there too long. The pain is deep and heavy, not sharp, not fading. It sits in my bones and refuses to move. My throat feels sore and dry, as if I have been screaming for hours, even though I cannot remember screaming at all. Breathing takes effort. Every breath feels very painful.
I try to move my hand. The signal leaves my brain, but it barely reaches my fingers. They twitch, just enough to tell me they still exist, then fall still again. My arm feels weak and distant, like it belongs to someone else. Panic flickers, but I force it down. Panicking is not the answer and it takes a lot of energy that I cannot afford to waste.
I lie still and focus on what I can feel. The surface beneath me is firm but padded. It feels too clean. Too smooth. This is not the ground, not concrete, not dirt. The air smells sharp and sterile. Hospitals always smell like this. I know that much.
So I am alive.
That should be comforting, but my mind refuses to settle.
Flashes push their way in without warning. Harsh lights cutting through darkness. Shouting that turns into noise without meaning. The echo of gunfire ringing too close to my ears. I remember giving orders, my voice steady even as everything around us spiraled out of control. I remember thinking the intel was wrong. No, not wrong. Incomplete. The Russians were prepared. Too prepared.
That realization still burns.
I see faces when I close my eyes. My unit moving where I told them to move. Trusting me. Following me. Luca is there too, stiff and tense, trying too hard to look like he belongs in the middle of it all. He does not. Not yet. He has no real battlefield experience, and I knew that when I approved the roster. I knew it, and I sent him anyway.
That guilt settles heavier than the pain.
Luca is a pain in the ass on a good day. He asks too many unreasonable questions just tj get on my nerves, teases me every chance he gets, never listens to anything I tell him, and looks at danger like it personally offended him. But he is still one of mine. He is in my unit, directly under my command, and I sent him into something he was not ready for. That thought makes my chest tighten more than the injury ever could.
I try to remember seeing him fall. I cannot. I don't know if that is a blessing or a curse.
Another memory surfaces. Movement to my left. Someone yelling my name. Then a sudden, violent impact that steals the air from my lungs. I remember the shock more than the pain, the disbelief that follows when your body does something you did not authorize. I remember thinking, very calmly, that getting shot was inconvenient. That I did not have time for this.
Typical.
I swallow with difficulty, my throat protesting the motion. If I could roll my eyes right now, I would. Of course I get taken out in the middle of a mission. Of course it happens when things are already going to hell. Timing has never been on my side.
Where am I exactly? A hospital, yes, but whose? Is this military? Civilian? I try to listen past the ringing in my ears, but everything feels muffled, as if I am underwater. Voices drift in and out, distant and indistinct. I cannot make out words yet.
My mind circles back to the same questions, over and over again.
Did my men make it out?
Did anyone die because I miscalculated?
Is Luca alive?
I picture him intentionally refusing to shoot the Russians, his jaw tight, his posture too rigid. He had looked at the warehouse like it might bite him. He had been right to be uneasy. I had dismissed it as nerves. Rookie nerves. I hate myself for that now.
The Russians were not just smugglers or low level operators. They fought like professionals. Coordinated. Ruthless. Prepared to die if it meant taking others with them. That changes everything. That means someone wanted blood, not just territory.
That means this is bigger than the mission brief.
The thought sends a ripple of unease through me. I try to shift again, testing my legs this time, but they respond even less than my arm. My body feels heavy, trapped under invisible weight. Anger flares. I hate being immobilized. I hate not knowing. I hate being out of control.
If I were conscious during transport, I would have demanded updates. I would have checked headcount. I would have made sure Luca was breathing, complaining, and still annoying.
Now I am left with silence and fragments.
A face flashes in my mind, close and intense, eyes locked on mine. Luca. No. Not Luca. Someone else. Someone who was not supposed to be there, yet somehow was. The memory is frustratingly unclear. I cannot place it properly, and my head starts to throb when I try.
Fine. I let it go for now.
If my men are alive, they will regroup. They always do. If they are hurt, they will fight through it. That is what I trained them to do. That is what I trained myself to do. I just did not expect to be the one lying here, unable to lift a hand.
The thought almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
I breathe slowly, carefully, counting each breath like I was taught. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Pain pulses with each inhale, but it does not overwhelm me. I have survived worse than pain. What I cannot survive is not knowing.
So I stay awake. I stay aware and I wait.
Someone will come
And when they do, I will have questions.
A lot of them.
I am not sure how long it takes before anyone comes in. Time slips in strange ways when pain and medication take turns pulling me under. It could be minutes. It could be hours. My body drifts in and out of unconsciousness, heavy and uncooperative. Each time I wake, it feels like dragging myself through thick water. Each time I try to stay awake, my strength fails me.
I tell myself to stay conscious. Someone might walk in. Someone might ask questions. Someone might need answers only I can give. But my body does not care about responsibility or rank or stubborn willpower. It shuts me down anyway.
When I wake again, it feels different. Slower. Heavier. My eyelids flutter before they fully open, and the light above me makes me squint. The room comes into focus piece by piece. White walls. Soft beeping. Clean air that smells faintly of disinfectant.
A nurse stands over me, checking something on a monitor with calm efficiency.
“You’re awake,” she says, her tone flat and professional, as if I have simply returned from a nap instead of nearly dying.
I try to answer, but my mouth barely moves. My throat burns, the effort sending a sharp reminder through my chest. She notices immediately and steps closer.
“Easy,” she says. “Don’t rush it.”
She adjusts the bed slightly, raising my upper body just enough to make breathing easier. I feel the pull in my chest and wince despite myself.
“You were brought in with a gunshot wound to the chest,” she continues, clearly used to giving this explanation. “The bullet missed your heart by a few inches. A little more to the left and we would be having a very different conversation right now.”
I take that in slowly. A few inches. That is all it ever takes.
“You were very lucky,” she adds, glancing at my chart. “And very strong. You lost blood, but you made it through surgery without complications. Not everyone does.”
I want to say that luck has nothing to do with it, but my body is not interested in debates. She shines a small light into my eyes, checking my pupils, then asks me a series of questions.
“What’s your name?”
“Amelia,” I manage, my voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“A hospital,” I answer after a brief pause.
“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”
I frown slightly, trying to piece it together. The timeline is a mess in my head. I give my best guess. She nods, satisfied enough, and makes another note on the chart.
She checks my vitals again, her movements practiced and gentle. She adjusts the IV line, then presses lightly near the bandaged area on my chest, careful not to cause pain.
“You’re doing well,” she says. “I’m going to let the doctor know you’re awake.”
She leaves the room quietly, and I am left alone with the beeping machines and my own thoughts. My chest aches with every breath, but the pain is controlled, dulled to something manageable. The fear, however, sits sharp and alert.
A few minutes later, she returns with a man in a white coat. He looks to be in his late forties, calm eyes, steady presence. He offers a small smile as he steps closer.
“How are we feeling?” he asks.
I try to answer immediately, but the attempt sends pain rippling through my chest. My breath catches, and I close my eyes briefly, annoyed more than frightened.
“Let’s not rush,” he says. “Your throat is dry from the breathing tube we used during surgery. Talking will be uncomfortable at first.”
He pours water into a glass and holds it carefully to my lips. “Small sips.”
I obey, drinking slowly. The cool water slides down my throat, easing the raw dryness almost instantly. I let out a quiet breath I did not realize I was holding. For the first time since waking up, I feel almost human.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod.
“You took a bullet to the chest,” he continues. “We removed it successfully. No damage to the heart or major vessels. You are sore because your body has been through trauma and surgery, but you are stable.”
I want to ask about my men. I want to ask if everyone made it. The words press at my throat, but I hesitate, gathering strength.
“Your recovery will take time,” he adds, as if reading my need for control. “But you’re alive. That matters.”
Alive. The word settles heavily.
I finally manage to speak again, my voice still rough but steadier. “My unit?”
He glances at the nurse, then back at me. “You’ll get answers,” he says gently. “Right now, focus on resting. You’ve done more than enough.”
I do not like that answer, but I understand it.
As they leave the room, I stare up at the ceiling, my body aching, my mind already racing ahead. I survived. That much is clear.
Now I need to know the cost.
About two minutes later, there is a knock on the door.
It is soft, almost hesitant, like whoever is on the other side is unsure if I am awake or not. Before I can respond, the door opens anyway. Luca walks in like he owns the place, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that immediately tells me he is alive and mostly unharmed.
Without meaning to, my eyes light up.
I feel it before I can stop it. A small smile forms on my lips, weak but real. Relief floods my chest so fast it almost hurts more than the wound. Luca survived. He is standing right there, breathing, moving, annoying as ever.
“Hiya there, Captain,” he says, snapping into a mock salute that is just sloppy enough to be disrespectful on purpose.
I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding. My shoulders relax slightly against the pillows.
He squints at me. “Why are you smiling so much? Should I be worried?”
I snort before I can stop myself, which is a terrible idea. Pain explodes through my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut, my hand instinctively tightening against the sheets.
“Oh, wow,” Luca says, wincing. “That bad, huh?”
“You are not funny,” I manage, my voice strained.
“I am extremely funny,” he replies. “You are just in no condition to appreciate greatness right now.”
He pulls a chair closer and sits, leaning forward like he is settling in for a long conversation. His eyes flick briefly to the bandages on my chest, then back to my face. The joking eases just a little.
“Look at you,” he says. “All hooked up to machines. If I had known you wanted attention this badly, I would have just bought you flowers.”
“I would have preferred that,” I mutter.
He grins, then sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “You scared the hell out of us.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off before I can.
“And before you say anything,” he continues, his tone shifting, “what the hell were you thinking not wearing a damn Kevlar?”
Here it comes.
“I did not expect—”
“You did not expect to get shot?” he snaps. “That is literally the job description.”
I glare at him, or at least I try to. It probably looks more like a tired squint.
“You could have died,” he says, his voice lower now. “Do you have any idea what it was like seeing you go down like that?”
“I am fine,” I say, even though we both know that is a lie.
“You are in a hospital bed with a hole in your chest,” he shoots back. “You are not fine.”
We go back and forth like that for a while. He scolds. I deflect. He lectures. I roll my eyes as much as my body allows. It feels normal, and that alone is grounding.
Eventually, the joking fades again, replaced by something heavier.
“How about the others?” I ask quietly. “My men. The recruits.”
Luca’s expression changes immediately. His shoulders stiffen. He looks away for a moment, jaw tight, like he is choosing his words carefully.
My stomach sinks.
“Luca,” I say. “Tell me.”
He exhales slowly. “Most of them did not make it.”
The words hit harder than the bullet ever did.
“And the ones who did?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
“Some are badly injured,” he says. “They are getting treatment at the military clinic. Doctors say a few of them are stable, but it is going to be a long recovery.”
I swallow hard. Guilt creeps in, heavy and suffocating. They were under my command. I signed off on that mission. I sent inexperienced recruits into something they were not ready for.
“I should not have sent them,” I whisper.
Luca does not argue. That silence hurts more than any scolding.
“The clinic,” I repeat, frowning slightly. “Wait. If they are at the military clinic, then where am I?”
I glance around the room again. The equipment is different. The space is bigger. The view outside the window does not match anything I remember from the clinic.
“This does not look like it,” I say.
Before Luca can answer, the door opens again.
Matteo walks in, arms full of takeout bags, the smell of food filling the room instantly. He pauses when he sees me awake, then smirks.
“That’s because it isn’t,” he says, dropping the bags on the table beside my bed. “You are in a civilian hospital.”
I stare at him, confused.
“And,” he adds casually, “this mother fucker had the entire floor evacuated for you to be treated.”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
“What?” I say.
Luca scratches the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the floor.
Matteo shrugs. “Private rooms. No witnesses. Full security. Doctors on standby. The whole dramatic package.”
I feel heat rush to my face. Shock mixes with embarrassment so fast I do not know which emotion wins.
“He did what?” I ask, incredulous.
“You were shot,” Matteo says. “Someone decided not to take chances.”
“That is insane,” I mutter. “That is unnecessary.”
Matteo laughs. “Good luck telling him that.”
I sink back against the pillows, mortified and overwhelmed. A civilian hospital. An evacuated floor. All for me.