Chapter 30: Eirlys

~ VITTORIO'S POV ~

“Buongiorno, capo.” My driver bows slightly as I step out of the villa and approach the waiting car.

The morning air is crisp, clean, though faintly carrying the scent of pine from the hills. Another new day, though for me days rarely feel different. They blend into one another, layered with duty, power, and shadows.

I had breakfast swiftly, an omelette, dark coffee, nothing more. Then I went upstairs to check on Elena before leaving. She was curled on her side, her hair scattered across her pillow, covering half her face like a curtain. Beautiful, fragile, yet strong in ways she doesn’t realize. She looks so much like her mother it pierces something in me I pretend doesn’t exist.

It’s ridiculous, really that I can only look at her for long stretches when she’s asleep. When she's awake, she dodges me. She looks at me like I’m a stranger standing where a father should have been.

I slide into the backseat, the leather cool beneath my palm. Paolo shuts my door, and slips into his seat.

While my driver slips into his with efficiency.

“Ospedale del Sacro Cuore,” I instruct. My voice is calm, but it allows no hesitation.

My driver nods. “Sì, capo.”

The hospital had called earlier, the doctor informed me that the woman would be discharged today. They are waiting patiently for my arrival to commence the discharge as it ought to be.

I'll ask her to tell me everything that happened that afternoon.

At least she owes me an explanation for saving her life.

At the very least, she will explain what happened that afternoon. I saved her life, her gratitude should come in the form of truth.

Of course, Elena could answer those questions better than anyone, but my daughter doesn’t even want to see me, let alone confide in me. Every time she turns away, I feel it sharper than any knife.

So that leaves me with her… the lady.

I realize, with a flicker of irritation, that I don’t even know her name. I could have learned it easily from Mira, but asking would look desperate. And desperate men? They are the ones who kneel at my feet, beg for my mercy, and sell their dignity for scraps of favor. I am not one of them. I will never walk that line.

The car glides through the city and stops before the hospital. I step out, and as always, the world seems to part for me.

“Welcome, sir.” The receptionist at the front bows quickly, her voice trembling.

I don’t acknowledge her. Why waste words? I walk straight for the elevator, my steps measured, sharp. Paolo follows silently behind me. His presence is heavy, solid, and his face remains unreadable as always. He is not here to speak, only to move when I command.

The elevator dings, doors sliding open. We step in. I rest my hands behind my back as we ascend. The ride is short, but my thoughts stretch.

By the time the elevator clings open again, I’ve already steeled myself.

We stride down the polished hall toward her ward. The place reeks faintly of disinfectant and anxiety, as all hospitals do.

Paolo pushes the door open for me, and I step inside.

The first thing I notice is the nurse. Young, pale, trembling like a leaf caught in the wind. Her eyes meet mine for half a second before she bows her head quickly.

“Good morning, Signore.” Her voice cracks slightly.

“Where is she?” My tone is smooth, commanding, cutting straight through her attempt at courtesy.

The nurse swallows hard, raising her head with visible effort. “She’s in the bathroom… getting ready.”

A slow smile touches my lips. Interesting.

I move toward the chair near the bed and sit down. My suit falls neatly, the dark fabric swallowing the light around me.

Paolo takes his place outside the door without a word, leaving me alone with the nervous nurse. She stands, hands twisting together, rubbing as though friction will give her courage.

“Let her know I’m here.” My command is soft, but there’s iron beneath it.

The nurse jumps into motion instantly, scurrying toward the bathroom door. She raises her hand, hesitates for a fraction of a second, then knocks lightly.

“Miss Eirlys,” she calls gently, “Don Vittorio is here.”

Eirlys.

The name hangs in the air, beautiful, sharp yet delicate. It strikes me in an unexpected place, like a blade sliding between ribs.

So that’s her name.

Eirlys.

I murmur it silently, rolling it over in my mind. There’s elegance in it, mystery in the way it curls off the tongue. It doesn’t sound Italian, not at all. Welsh, perhaps. Or northern, distant. Not from here, that much I’m certain.

A small frown forms between my brows. If she is not Italian, then what is she doing here, entangled in my world, dropped into the middle of my chaos like fate herself tossed her at my feet?

I lean back slightly, eyes fixed on the bathroom door. I can hear faint movements from inside, the rustle of fabric, the scrape of something light against the sink. She’s taking her time. Good. Let her. It will give me longer to think.

Already I imagine her face again, pale and bruised, as it had been the day I saved her. Broken, yet alive. There had been defiance even in her unconsciousness, a stubbornness clinging to her like a second skin. That woman was not meant to die that day, not under those hooves. I had carried her myself, though I never carry anyone.

I glance at the nurse still standing by the door, her eyes lowered, too afraid to look at me directly. The sight amuses me for a fleeting second. Fear is a currency I never run out of.

But when the bathroom handle finally clicks, my attention sharpens instantly.

Eirlys.