Chapter 95 CHAPTER 095

Chapter 95 CHAPTER 095
The ICU waiting room was small and cold, bathed in harsh fluorescent light and thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic.

Two hours had passed since Papa had been rushed through the double doors into the ICU.

Two agonizing hours.

The doors hadn't opened once.

Not for a doctor.

Not for a nurse.

Not for anyone.

Anna sat rigidly in one of the plastic chairs, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers ached. Her gaze never wavered from the closed double doors.

Beside her, Isabella sat curled into herself, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs.

She had stopped crying about twenty minutes ago, but the damp tracks mapping her cheeks left her looking utterly undone.

Every few minutes, a small sound escaped her throat—something between a sob and a whimper—shattering the heavy silence that had settled over the room.

Rosalia stood by the window with her back to the room, her shoulders trembling.

One hand was pressed over her mouth, trying to smother the broken gasps she couldn't hold back. The other clutched a tissue that had long since disintegrated, its damp shreds clinging to her fingers.

Martina, who had been sitting in a chair close to the ICU door, stood up and moved to Rosalia's side, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder before rubbing slow circles across her back.

"It's okay," Martina whispered, though her voice cracked on the words. "It's going to be okay, Rosa. Papa’s strong. He's always been strong."

Rosalia only shook her head. A low, broken sound escaped her throat—too raw to be called a sob, too heavy with grief to become words.

Martina leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Rosalia's forehead before giving her shoulder one last reassuring squeeze.

Then she crossed to Isabella and crouched in front of her chair, her knees popping softly as she lowered herself.

She gathered Isabella's cold, white-knuckled hands in hers, rubbing them gently between her palms in an attempt to warm them.

"Bella," Martina murmured softly. "Guardami." (Look at me.)

Isabella slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her lower lip trembling.

"Sorellona." (Big Sis.) she whispered. "Ho paura." (I'm scared.)

Martina nodded, a stray tear she had been trying to hold back finally spilling down her cheek.

"Lo so," (I know.) she whispered, her voice tight. "Lo so, Bella. Ma dobbiamo essere forti. Per Papà. L'una per l'altra." (I know, Bella. But we have to be strong. For Papa. For each other.)

A sob escaped Isabella as she leaned into Martina, burying her face against her sister's shoulder.

Martina wrapped her arms around her, holding her close as she gently rocked her back and forth. "Shh… It's okay. It's okay."

Anna watched them from her chair without moving.

Her hands rested quietly in her lap, her back perfectly straight, her eyes dry. She couldn't cry. It was as though every emotion inside her had frozen, leaving her trapped in the memory of what had happened only a few hours earlier.

Papa lying motionless on the gravel.

His face, pale and unnaturally still.

His eyes closed.

She couldn't stop seeing it. The images replayed behind her eyes over and over again, refusing to let her breathe.

The heavy doors to the stairwell banged open, jolting Anna in her chair.

Everyone turned toward the sound.

Vincenzo strode into the waiting room, his charcoal suit unbuttoned and his tie loosened at the collar. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as though he had run all the way there.

Three guards followed close behind him, taking their positions at the far end of the room.

His shoes struck the tiled floor in sharp, purposeful steps, and a strange, unfamiliar hardness had settled over his features.

For a briefest moment, his gaze found Anna.

His eyes swept over her face, her trembling hands folded in her lap, then moved on as though she were nothing more than another object in the room.

There was no warmth. No recognition. No hesitation.

Without breaking stride, he walked past Anna and went straight to his sisters.

The quiet dismissal tightened something deep inside her chest, leaving it aching in a way she couldn't explain.

"Martina."

At the sound of Vincenzo’s voice, Martina looked up.

Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.

Isabella slowly lifted her head from Martina's shoulder and looked at her brother.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words refused to come.

Vincenzo stopped in front of them, his towering frame casting a long shadow over both sisters.

"What did they say?" His voice was scraped raw, hovering somewhere between a shout and a choked-off roar. "What's wrong with Papa?"

No one answered.

Rosalia turned away from the window and faced Vincenzo. The moment their eyes met, her face crumpled. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a broken sob escaped.

Vincenzo's jaw clenched hard.

"Answer me," he snapped, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. "Goddammit... someone fucking answer me!"

Martina flinched.

For a moment, she remained frozen.

Then, with visible effort, she pushed herself to her feet on unsteady legs and turned to face Vincenzo.

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze despite the tremor in her lower lip.

"We don't know," she said quietly, her voice surprisingly steady. "They haven't told us anything yet."

Vincenzo held her gaze in silence. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands before he let them fall with a harsh, frustrated exhale. "Fuck."

The single word echoed through the waiting room.

He turned away from them, stopping dead in front of the heavy ICU doors.

For a long moment, he stood motionless, his back to the room and his hands hanging heavy at his sides.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

His shoes struck the tiled floor in a steady, relentless rhythm, each step marking the agonizing passage of time.

Anna's eyes followed him.

She couldn't look away.

Her gaze drifted to his hands. She caught the faint twitch of his fingers, the way his knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, forced them open, only to clench them again a moment later.

Every movement betrayed the battle he was fighting to keep himself together.

The tension rippled through his body. His shoulders remained taut, the muscles in his neck drawn tight, his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth hard enough for the muscle beneath his skin to jump.

Vincenzo was scared.

The realization settled over Anna with startling clarity.

Vincenzo—the man who walked through the world as though nothing could touch him, who stared down men twice his size until they looked away first—was terrified.

Still, he paced relentlessly, back and forth across the waiting room.

His hands opened and closed in restless succession, the tremor never leaving them, never easing, as though he could somehow outrun the fear clawing its way through him.

The sight cracked something open inside her chest.

The ICU door clicked open.

Everyone in the waiting room shot to their feet.

A doctor stepped into the harsh fluorescent light. He appeared to be in his fifties, silver woven through his dark hair. He clutched a clipboard tightly to his chest, his knuckles blanched against its edge.

His gaze swept across the waiting room—the tear-streaked faces, the guards standing silently at attention, and finally Vincenzo, whose rigid stance did little to conceal the tremor in his hands.

The tired weight in the doctor's eyes shifted into something sharper. Caution. Perhaps even dread.

Vincenzo lunged before anyone else could react, closing the distance to block the doorway.

He stopped inches from the doctor's face, his voice dropping into a register that felt colder than the room. "How’s my dad doing?"

The doctor swallowed, his grip tightening on the clipboard. "We've stabilized him for now," he said carefully. "But I can't say whether his condition will improve. Right now... all we can do is hope and wait."

Vincenzo held his gaze. "Hope and wait?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes."

In one swift movement, Vincenzo's hand shot out, fisting the doctor's shirt collar beneath his white coat.

With a violent jerk, he yanked him forward until only inches separated their faces.

The doctor stumbled into him with a startled gasp. The clipboard slipped from his grasp and crashed onto the tiled floor with a hollow clatter.

"Don't fucking tell me that," Vincenzo growled, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I don't want hope. I want my father alive. You're a doctor, so save him. I don't care what it takes. Just make sure he walks out of that room alive." His grip tightened. "Do you understand me?"

The doctor's composure shattered.

His hands flew up, clawing desperately at Vincenzo's wrist, but the iron grip didn't budge.

A flush crept up his neck, spreading across his face as his eyes widened and each breath became a strained, choking gasp.

"L-let... go..." he rasped, struggling for air. "You're... choking me."

When Vincenzo didn't loosen his grip, panic flared in the doctor's eyes. "L-let go of me," he forced out. "Let go of me this instant, or I'll call security and have you thrown out."