Chapter 20 Amelia
Amelia
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to process everything Matteo just said. My head feels heavy, like my thoughts are moving through thick mud. A civilian hospital. An evacuated floor. Full security. None of that makes sense, and yet it explains why everything feels so wrong.
“This is too much,” I say finally. My voice sounds weak, and I hate it. “I am not a dignitary. I am not a politician. I am not even supposed to be here.”
Luca clears his throat. “You are also not supposed to get shot in the chest,” he says lightly. “Yet here we are.”
I turn my head slowly to look at him. He gets up to lean against the wall with his arms crossed, trying very hard to look relaxed. He fails. There is tension in his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightens when our eyes meet.
“That does not justify this,” I say. “People do not evacuate entire hospital floors for a captain.”
Matteo opens one of the takeout bags and pulls out containers, completely unbothered. “People with money do,” he replies. “And people with connections.”
I frown. “Since when do you have that kind of authority, Luca?”
Luca lifts a brow. “Excuse you. I am deeply offended. I am a perfectly respectable billionaire with a terrible habit of throwing money at problems until they go away.”
“That is not reassuring,” I say.
“It is honest,” Matteo says, handing Luca a drink. “Which is more than I can say for most people.”
I watch them exchange a look. It is quick. Too quick. The kind of look people share when they already know what the other is thinking. It makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach.
“I don't like this,” I say quietly.
Luca straightens. “You don't have to like it. You just have to heal and deal with it.”
“That is easy for you to say,” I reply. “You are not the one lying in a bed while civilians get displaced because of you.”
Matteo snorts. “Trust me, Captain. They will survive the trauma of using a different elevator.”
I glare at him. “You are not helping.”
“I am never trying to,” he says cheerfully.
I shift slightly, then regret it immediately as pain flares through my chest. I suck in a breath through my teeth, my hand instinctively moving toward the bandages.
Luca is at my side instantly. “Do not move like that,” he says, his tone sharp now. “You are stitched, patched, and held together by medical miracles. Please do not test them.”
I look up at him. “You sound like the nurse.”
“Well, she did kind of threaten me,” he says. “I might be a little bit scared of her.”
Despite myself, a small laugh escapes me. It hurts, but it feels good too. Luca smiles like he just won something important.
Matteo watches us with a knowing expression. “I am going to grab a few things,” he says. “Try not to strangle each other while I'm gone.”
“I am physically incapable of strangling anyone right now,” I mutter.
“Give it time,” he says, then steps out.
The room feels quieter without him. Too quiet.
Luca pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“How are you really?” he asks.
I hesitate. Do I lie or do I say the truth? “I feel like I failed,” I say instead.
His expression hardens. “Don't.”
“I sent them in,” I continue. “I knew they were green. I knew it was too soon. I underestimated the enemy, and people paid for it. My men paid for it.”
His jaw tightens. “That is not all on you and it's not your fault.”
"Enough of it is," I reply.
He looks away, then back at me. “You saved lives. You protected them as much as you could”
“I lost more.”
“You stayed standing when most people would have frozen,” he says. “You kept your cool. You kept giving orders even after you probably realised the whole thing had gone to shit!"
I blink. “You noticed?”
"Yes,” he says softly. "It was like they knew we were coming and were more than prepared to face us."
"So, do you think it was an ambush? That we were lured there?" I ask, still finding the whole thing hard to believe.
"Probably," he says and sighs, shoving his fingers into his hair. "Who approved the mission and from who did the orders come?"
I shrug. "The Colonel reached out to me, since my unit is responsible for catching criminal organisations. He told me he got a tip about a Russian mob operating here in Verona and to gather my men so we can proceed. I tried explaining that the recruits weren't ready for a field experience but he was having none of it. I had no choice. I'm just a Captain, I had to follow orders."
"I see," he murmurs.
"I'm really sorry, Luca. If I had known, I wouldn't have sent you all out there, knowing the risks."
He snorts and stands up. "Sorry doesn't really suit you, Captain Russo. Moreover, none of it was your fault. Like you said, you're just a Captain and you were following orders." He walks to the door.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Out," he says. "Business calls. I'll see you later, Captain Russo. Make sure you eat and rest. Don't even think about leaving the hospital before you're discharged." And with that, he leaves.
I watch the door close behind him and the click of the handle echoes in the quiet room. The silence settles over me, heavy and suffocating. I want to move, to get up, to do something—anything—but the pain reminds me I can't. My chest still burns beneath the bandages, and even the smallest breath is sharp and uncomfortable.
I shift slightly, careful, wincing as I feel the soreness in my ribs flare up. My fingers hover over the edge of the blanket, as if holding onto it will keep me steady, and I catch myself staring at the ceiling again. My thoughts swirling and heavy with confusing.
The mission. My men. The recruits. The ones who didn’t make it. And the ones who did. Luca said I protected them as much as I could, but it feels hollow. My stomach knots. I replay every moment in the warehouse, the smoke, the shouting, the gunfire, and the panic. My own commands echo in my head, harsh and exacting, because I can still remember the tone I used even through the chaos.
I close my eyes and see flashes of their faces. The recruits, nervous and wide-eyed, trying to follow my orders. I had drilled them, trained them, but that was not enough. The Russians were ready. Much too ready than I gasy anticipated. I hate it. I hate feeling like a failure and I know General Russo is going to have a fun time reminding me what a failure I am.
I open my eyes and force myself to focus on the room. The ceiling, the sterile smell, the faint hum of the air conditioning. I can feel my heart hammering—not just from the pain, but from the dread of knowing how prepared the Russians were. Someone must have warned them. How else could they have anticipated us? How else could every movement, every exit, every angle have been covered before we even arrived?
My mind jumps to Luca. I know nothing about him really. He's a mystery I can't solve yet, a presence in my life that feels too heavy to ignore. And yet, he’s the only one who understood even a fraction of what I went through in the warehouse.
I try to move again, lifting my hand just slightly. Pain shoots through my shoulder and chest, and I groan softly. The bandages feel tight, suffocating, and I realize just how fragile I am right now. My throat is dry, and my lips feel cracked. The water the nurse gave me earlier helped, but it doesn’t erase the ache in my chest or the fire in my lungs when I breathe.
I think of Luca’s words again, how he noticed the organization of the Russians. Every room, every corridor, every shadow—they were ready for us. That means someone warned them. Someone knew we were coming and chose to let them prepare. I want to scream, to throw the sheets across the room, to find whoever did this, but my body won't cooperate.
I sink back against the pillows, eyes scanning the window. The city outside glimmers in the late afternoon light. Normal life goes on below, oblivious to the chaos that nearly killed me. It makes my chest tighten even more. How can life feel so calm for everyone else when everything inside me is in turmoil?
The room feels colder now, empty without Luca. I reach for the nurse call button but stop. I can’t bring myself to admit just how scared I am. How vulnerable. I’ve spent years being in control, commanding people, leading teams, making decisions that mattered—and now, here I am, dependent on someone I barely know.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. It’s Matteo, returning with a small tray. He doesn’t say anything.
I watch him from the corner of my eye the moment he steps back into the room. My body stiffens, instinctive and immediate. I don’t trust him, and I don’t pretend to.
“You again,” I say flatly.
Matteo pauses, clearly catching the tone. His lips twitch, amused. “Relax. I don’t bite.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I reply. “You walked into a military base without clearance the first time we met. Forgive me if I’m not eager to play friendly.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fair. That wasn’t my best entrance.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask. “And don’t say coincidence.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Trust me, Captain, I’d rather be anywhere else.”
I narrow my eyes. “Then leave.”
“Can’t,” he says easily. “Luca made me stay.”
That hits harder than it should. “Why?”
His gaze sharpens, just a little. “Because he doesn’t trust you not to run.”
My chest tightens. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Matteo says. “You’re injured, stubborn, and clearly pissed at being stuck in one place. He figured you’d try something reckless the moment his back was turned.”
Anger flares hot and fast in me. “So he sent you to babysit me?”
“I wouldn’t call it babysitting,” Matteo replies. “More like damage control.”
I scoff. “I don’t need some stranger watching me.”
He raises a brow. “Funny. You barely know me, yet here we are.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I snap. “I barely know you. And now you’re in my space, acting like you have any right—”
“I don’t,” he cuts in. “Let’s get that straight. I’m not here because I care. I’m here because Luca asked, and I work for him.”
“That makes it worse,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
We both remain silent, saying nothing more.
Finally, he steps back toward the door. “Try not to do anything stupid,” he says. “I’m not interested in explaining this mess to Luca.”
I glare at him. “Get out.”
Matteo smirks. “Already ahead of you.”
The door closes behind him, and I sink back against the bed, furious all over again. Not at Matteo. Not really.
At Luca.
I close my eyes and the memory comes rushing back, sharper than any pain I feel in my chest.
I can still see it clearly, even now, lying here in the hospital. That night, I was in my office, finishing up paperwork. The stack in front of me was tedious, but necessary. My pen scratched across the paper, filing reports, checking off completed tasks. I was planning to call it a night soon, to finally shut the office light off and go home.
The door slammed open before I could put the pen down. My chair scraped back. I spun upright, quickly snapping to attention. “Colonel!” I said, standing and saluting. “Sir! Is something wrong?”
He never barged in like this. Never, and certainly not this late. His boots thumped against the floor as he crossed the room. He looked… different. Off.
“You have fifteen minutes,” he said without preamble, his voice harsh. “Get your men assembled. We’re moving out.”
I blinked, confused. “Sir?” I swallowed. “Fifteen minutes? This late at night? For what kind of mission?”
He ignored the question. “Get them together. Now.”
I hesitated. My mind raced. The recruits—they were inexperienced. Some had barely finished their training. They were green. I couldn’t just send them into a full operation like this. “Sir, with respect, the men—my team—they’re not ready. Some haven’t even—”
“Stop making excuses!” he cut me off sharply. “You leave in fifteen minutes. That’s an order. No explanations.”
I froze for a moment, studying him. Something about the way he moved, the tight line of his jaw, the sweat at the back of his neck, the slight tremor in his hands—it didn’t match the confidence in his voice. He was uncomfortable. On edge.
“Sir,” I started again, quieter this time, and cautious. “I understand orders, but what if—what if this is too dangerous? What if the men aren’t—”
“Enough!” he snapped. “You get your team assembled. Fifteen minutes. That’s all you need to know. Move.”
I wanted to argue, to press, but he turned and left. His coat flapped slightly as he moved, the boots echoing in the hallway. His shoulders were tight, stiff. His hand shook slightly as he straightened the door behind him.
And then it hit me. The unease, the sweat, the hands—what if he knew? What if he knew we were walking into something we couldn’t handle? What if this wasn’t a simple raid? What if it was a trap, and he sent us anyway?
The thought made my stomach twist, heavy and cold. Was he working with the Russians? Was he a spy? Was this deliberate?
Even now, in this hospital bed, I replay it over and over. The sudden crash of the door, the Colonel’s clipped orders, the sharp dismissal of my warnings.
I had followed orders. I had trusted him. And maybe that trust had almost cost us everything.
The room feels colder now, though the air conditioner hums steadily in the background. I can feel the sweat on my palms, even under the blanket. My chest aches from the bandages and from the weight of my thoughts. My mind won’t stop racing, cycling over the Colonel’s face, the sweat at the back of his neck, the tremor in his hands.
If he knew… if he really knew we were walking into a trap, then someone gave him the order. Someone higher up. And my mind immediately jumps to one person: my father. General Marco Russo.
I close my eyes tightly, trying to force the thought away. No. That’s ridiculous. He’s my father. He wouldn’t… would he? Could he really…? My stomach twists painfully. The idea is sickening, revolting even. But a part of me can’t ignore it. My father is a man who plays by his own rules, who values power above all else. He doesn’t tolerate weakness. And maybe, just maybe, I’m too much of a complication for him.
Could he really stoop so low, working with criminals, orchestrating a raid meant to get rid of me? Could he actually attempt to have his only daughter assassinated? My hands clench over the blanket. I feel like my chest is tightening around my ribs, my lungs compressed with the weight of the possibility.
And yet, as I sit here, I try to reason with myself. No. I am overthinking. I am letting fear twist reality into something darker than it is. My father loves me, or at least… he should. He raised me, after all. He would never cross that line, would he?
The doubt gnaws at me. I know my father is a man of extremes. I’ve seen it, lived it. His voice, cold and exacting, has haunted every corner of my life. But still… assassination? That’s unthinkable. That’s madness. And yet, if the Colonel was nervous, if he was shaking… maybe it wasn’t madness. Maybe it was orders. Maybe it was strategy. Or maybe it was betrayal.
I lean back against the pillows, trying to steady my breathing. The sterile hospital smell is suffocating, but it’s also grounding. My eyes drift to the window, to the city below, glittering in the early evening light. Life goes on out there, indifferent, blind to the chaos that nearly destroyed my team. Oblivious to the forces that may be moving in shadows, forces that might include my own family.
I remember Luca’s words again. How he had noticed patterns, small things that didn’t add up, movements that felt rehearsed. And now I can’t stop seeing the connections myself. The raid, the Colonel’s urgency, the orders barked like we had no choice… it all fits. Fits into a puzzle I don’t want to complete.
I feel a wave of self-loathing. I always think I’m too cautious, too skeptical. But now, maybe I wasn’t cautious enough. Maybe I trusted too easily. My eyes sting as I picture my recruits, green and frightened, relying on me. How many of them might not have survived? How close did we come to total disaster? And if my father really was behind it… my heart aches in a completely different way. Betrayal cuts deeper than any bullet.
I shake my head, trying to banish the thought. No. He wouldn’t. I try to remind myself that my father’s love, twisted as it may be, has limits. That he wouldn’t cross the line into murder. But the doubt is persistent. Insidious. I can’t shake the feeling that something about that night—about the Colonel’s behavior, about the timing of the orders—was… wrong.
I mutter under my breath, sarcastic even to myself, trying to lighten the dark cloud of suspicion. “Great. Just great. My own father plotting against me. Of course. Because life isn’t complicated enough already.” My voice sounds foreign in the quiet room.
I let myself sink into the bed, gripping the blanket even tighter and hugging it to my chest. My mind races between possibilities, between fear and denial. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe it’s all paranoia. Maybe I’ve simply let the stress, the pain, and the near-death experiences warp my thinking. I try to tell myself that. Over and over. You’re overthinking. Stop seeing shadows where there are none. Stop creating enemies that don’t exist.
And yet, the thought lingers. The fear clings to me like a second skin. The idea that my father could have orchestrated a trap, that he might have turned his hand against me… it’s impossible to ignore. Every instinct screams that something isn’t right. That there’s more to that night than the orders, the chaos, the luck.
I stare at the ceiling, muscles tight, teeth pressed together. I hear the faint beeping of machines, the soft shuffle of nurses outside, the distant hum of the hospital. But nothing feels safe. Nothing feels certain. Even here, under bandages, under supervision, I can’t shake it.
And then, in the thick of my spiraling thoughts, the sound of the door sliding open makes my heart jolt. I tense instinctively, every muscle taut, expecting someone I don’t trust, someone bringing bad news, someone bringing more harm than good.
And then I see him.
My older brother steps into the ward. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, every inch the dangerous, dark presence I’ve always known. His black hair is slicked back, his eyes glinting with mischief, sharp and wicked. There’s a slow, deliberate confidence in the way he moves, a predator’s grace that makes me instinctively shrink back.
“Hello, little sis,” he says, voice low and smooth, laced with amusement. “Did you miss me?”
A grin curls across his lips, playful, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Something that tells me he’s not here just to check on me. Something that tells me everything about him—my father’s blood, my childhood fears, the power he
wields—still runs wild and unchecked.
And just like that, the knot in my stomach tightens. My chest aches for a completely different reason now, and I realize that even in a hospital bed, nothing about my life will ever feel safe again.