Chapter 59

Chapter 59
ELENA'S POV

MOMENTS OF WEAKNESS

I waited.

I waited for what felt like hours, but I got no response. My heart sank into the deepest of pits. He's just going to ignore me, isn't he?

I heaved and tossed my phone aside. Why do I even care?

It was just a slap. I was jittery, I had just killed a man, I fucking overreacted, why did he have to be so damn mad at me?

I shut my eyes, rolling to my side. “Are you stupid, Elena?" I grumbled to myself. “Just a slap? You gotta be kidding me."

It was like I was having a battle with my mind. Stupid organ was trying to justify my guilt, meanwhile, it was already a hundred times justified. Like I didn't already know that if the tables were turned and Conner was the one who hit me, I'd never speak to him again.

That's so understated. I would probably do worse.

I heaved again, finally getting to my feet. A thought crossed my mind immediately.

Luca!

Did I want to meet him? Well, yes, I did.

But I just murdered someone, and not just anyone, someone he knew and probably cared deeply about. Would I be able to face him?

It wasn't like I had a choice. I had promised him, so I technically had to go. I'm never one to disappoint someone, cause I hate to be disappointed.

Plus, he's injured. There's no way I'd be able to survive the worry if I don't see him soon.

Wait! Why am I worried?

“Jeez!" I growled, finding my way to my bedroom, then the bathroom.

Luca, here I come!

About an hour and a half later, I stood outside his penthouse, staring at the massive double doors like they might swallow me whole. My hand hovered in the air, just shy of pressing the buzzer. For some reason, my heart felt heavier than it had all day, my fingers twitching with hesitation.

I knocked instead, soft, barely audible, then waited for a response. However, I got none.

I tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. I was about to knock a third time when the door creaked open. It wasn’t locked.

Cautiously, I stepped inside.

“Luca?” I called out, voice shaky. “Are you...?”

The smell of blood hit me first—the metallic smell and sharp iron. My stomach twisted. I followed the trail—drops of crimson smeared along the tiles, leading into the living room. The curtains were half-drawn, letting the late evening light slant in, warm and golden, but there was nothing warm about the scene before me.

Luca was on the couch, shirt off, a bloodied towel pressed against his shoulder. He looked pale, sweating, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. My breath caught in my throat.

“Shit, Luca!” I rushed forward and knelt beside him.

He gave me a weak grin. “Took you long enough,” he rasped.

“Why didn’t you go to a hospital?” I snapped, panic rising in my chest as I peeled the soaked towel away. The wound was deeper than I expected—angry, red, oozing sluggishly. “You’re bleeding out, and you think now’s the time to flirt?”

“Didn’t want questions… figured I’d wait for you,” he murmured.

I couldn’t even be mad. Not with the way his lips trembled, not with how fragile he looked. I pulled out my phone and called the first private emergency contact I had—an off-the-record nurse who owed me favors.

“Be here in fifteen minutes,” I said, hanging up before she could ask questions.

I turned back to Luca and grabbed a fresh towel from the nearby shelf, pressing it firmly against his wound. “Hold this.”

He winced, his arm shaking as he took over. I worked quickly, setting up everything we’d need for a makeshift first-aid station.

Fifteen minutes later, the nurse arrived. She was older, but blunt and efficient. She barely looked at me before tending to Luca, her gloved hands moving with practiced ease. She stitched him with an insane speed, but that didn't stop Luca from growling lowly every two seconds. I felt for him. The antiseptic was less painful, or maybe he had learnt to endure even more pain in less than thirty minutes. I was grateful when she eventually began dressing the wound.

I stood to the side, arms crossed tightly against my chest, watching everything with a clenched jaw and a spiraling mind.

When the nurse finished and left without a word, silence settled into the room. A thick silence laced with unspoken words. Luca slowly adjusted his weight and leaned back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before they drifted to me.

Then he chuckled like the pain didn't faze him. “Who was that woman? She moved like a robot. For a minute, I almost concluded she was programmed.”

I tried to hold back a laugh, but it came out anyway—a soft, tender sound. “She doesn't… uhh… she doesn't like people,” I said. "She owes a few favors,” I added, rather unnecessarily.

He nodded. “Family friend?"

I hesitated. He got the hint.

“Nahh! You don't have to tell me." He smiled again, and I was stuck wondering if he had suddenly turned invincible. “Thank you, Elena." He mumbled.

“Okay," I said, my mind blank.

“I’m glad you came,” he said quietly.

I swallowed. “I couldn’t not come.”

He chuckled softly, then winced. “Careful. You almost sound like you care.”

I didn’t answer. I just walked to the kitchen.

Did I care?

“What are you doing in there? Need something?" I heard him call from the living room.

I rolled my eyes. Like he'd be able to get me anything in that state.

“You better not move, Mr Luca," I yelled back.

I heard him chuckle again. “Yes, ma'am." I couldn't help but smile as well.

He's so charming even when he's injured. Jeez, Luca! Take it easy on me, will you?

There were only a few things in his fridge, but I made it work. Pasta, garlic, and some leftover chicken. My hands moved on autopilot, chopping, stirring, trying to quiet the war in my chest with routine. When I returned with two plates, he looked surprised.

“You cooked?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” I muttered, setting his food down on the coffee table.

He tried to lift his fork, then groaned. “My arm’s dead weight.”

I sighed, picked up the fork, and fed him the first bite myself.

He blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Chew,” I said flatly.

He obeyed. And so it went—me feeding him in silence, him occasionally smirking through the pain. By the time we finished, something had shifted. The room felt softer. Not warm, but less cold.

I turned in the plates and returned to him, settling on the couch like I was supposed to be there.

I wasn't supposed to be here!

“So…” I began, my voice more croaked than I wanted to admit. "Are you going to tell me what happened to you?”

He shot me a glance, but that was it.

“I lost someone,” Luca said after a long pause.

My breath caught. “Who?”

He hesitated, then looked away. “Martinez.”