Bloody Prayers

Bloody Prayers
Isabella’s POV

The crack of the gunshot still rang in my ears, loud and cruel, long after the mall had faded behind us.

Ricardo’s blood soaked through my fingers, warm and slick, as I pressed both hands over the wound. His small body went limp against me, eyes fluttering, face draining of color faster than I could comprehend. The wooden boat lay forgotten on the floor, surrounded by scattered gelato cups and screaming strangers.

“Stay with me, tesoro,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Stay with Mama.”

He didn’t answer. Just a soft whimper that tore my heart in half.

Carlo scooped him up, barking into his phone—ambulance, now, lockdown the building. My mother’s hands clutched my arm, nails digging in, her face white as death. We ran. Through crowds parting like waves, through doors bursting open into blinding sunlight.

The ambulance ride blurred into nightmare. Sirens screamed overhead. Lights flashed red and blue across Ricardo’s pale cheeks. Paramedics worked fast—pressure bandages, IV lines, oxygen mask over his tiny mouth. His blood pressure dropped. Numbers on the monitor dipped. Beeps grew erratic.

I held his hand. Cold. Too cold.

“Please,” I begged the paramedic. “He’s only five. Please.”

He didn’t look at me. Just kept working.

I prayed then. Silently. Desperately. To every god I’d ever heard of. To the Virgin Mary my mother had taught me about. To saints whose names I couldn’t remember. To anything listening.

Don’t take him. Not him. He’s all I have. Take me. Punish me. But not him.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and endless. I didn’t wipe them away. Couldn’t let go of his hand.

The hospital doors flew open. They wheeled him inside on the stretcher, white coats swarming. Questions fired at me—name, age, allergies, blood type. I answered on autopilot. Romano. Five. None. Unknown.

They rushed him through swinging doors marked TRAUMA. I tried to follow. A nurse blocked me gently but firmly.

“Family waits here, signora.”

“He’s my—” The word nephew stuck in my throat. “He’s mine. Please.”

She guided me to a row of plastic chairs under harsh fluorescent lights. The smell hit me—antiseptic, bleach, fear. My mother collapsed beside me, sobbing quietly into her hands.

Carlo stood a few feet away, phone to his ear, voice low and urgent.

I stared at the doors. Red sign above: OPERATING THEATER. NO ENTRY.

Time stretched. Tortured.

I rocked slightly in the chair, arms wrapped around myself. My dress was ruined—blood smeared across the front, drying dark and stiff. Ricardo’s blood. My son’s.

Guilt crashed over me in waves. This was my fault. Bringing him here. Into this world. Into Giovanni’s world. I should have run farther. Hidden better. Kept him away from Palermo, from mafia, from guns.

But I’d been weak. Lonely. Wanted him close.

Now he was in there. Bleeding. Alone.

I closed my eyes. Saw his smile from breakfast. Jam on his chin. Laughing about the big bed like a boat.

Please, God. Let him laugh again.

The waiting room was cold. Air-conditioning too high. I shivered, but didn’t feel it. My eyes burned—swollen, raw from crying. Tears kept coming. Silent now. Just falling.

My mother reached for my hand. Hers trembled.

“He’s strong,” she whispered. “Like you.”

I couldn’t answer. Throat too tight.

Minutes dragged. Or hours. The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly. Every second a lifetime.

I counted beeps from distant monitors. Counted footsteps in the hall. Counted heartbeats in my chest—too fast, too painful.

What if he didn’t make it?

No.

I shoved the thought away. Couldn’t breathe if I let it in.

Finally—finally—the doors opened.

A doctor emerged. Scrubs splattered with blood. Mask pulled down. Face exhausted but calm.

My legs barely held me as I stood.

“Family of Ricardo Romano?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Please. Tell me.”

He nodded once. “The bullet grazed his upper arm. No bone damage. No major artery hit. We’ve cleaned and stitched the wound.”

Relief buckled my knees. I grabbed the wall.

“But,” he continued, and my heart stopped again, “he lost a lot of blood. Too much for a child his size. His pressure is low. He needs a transfusion immediately to stabilize him.”

“Do it,” I said quickly. “Whatever he needs.”

The doctor hesitated. “His blood type is AB Rh-negative. Very rare. Our blood bank is currently out of stock. We’ve put in emergency requests to other hospitals in the region, but it will take time—hours, maybe more.”

Rh-negative.

The words sank in slowly.

Rare.

Out of stock.

Hours.

Ricardo didn’t have hours.

My vision tunneled. Breath short. Panic clawed up my throat.

“Is anyone here a match?” the doctor asked gently. “We can test immediately. Family members often—”

“I’m O-positive,” I cut in, voice shaking.

My mother shook her head, tears fresh. “A-positive.”

No.

No no no.

The doctor’s face softened with pity. “We’ll keep searching. But if you know anyone else—anyone with Rh-negative blood—call them now.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then Carlo spoke from the corner. Quiet. Uncertain.

“The Don,” he said. “Giovanni. He’s Rh-negative.”

The name hit me like a slap.

Giovanni.

My husband.

The man who owned my life. My cage.

The man whose world had just shot my son.

I turned to Carlo slowly. The room spun.

Blood. Giovanni’s blood could save him.

But at what cost?

The truth hovered, dangerous, close.

But Ricardo.

My baby.

Bleeding.

Dying.

I swallowed the terror. The heartbreak. The guilt.

“Call him,” I said, voice steady now. Final. “Call Giovanni. Tell him to come. Immediately.”