Family Lines

Family Lines
Giovanni’s POV

I watched her through the glass window of the recovery room. Isabella sat beside the bed, her hand wrapped around the boy’s small fingers. Ricardo—her “brother”—lay pale against the pillows, IV lines snaking into his arm, bandages thick on his wounded side. Machines hummed softly around him, steady beeps marking the passage of time. His chest rose and fell evenly now, slow and calm, thanks to my blood coursing through him. But she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. Like if she looked away, even for a second, he might disappear.

She loved him. That much was clear. The devastation in her eyes when I’d arrived—the way she’d broken against me, begging, voice hoarse with terror—told me everything. That kind of fear didn’t come from obligation. Even now, hours after the surgery, she refused to leave his side. Nurses came and went quietly, offering her water, a blanket, a chance to rest. She shook her head each time. “I’m fine,” she’d murmur. “Just let me stay.” Like staying was the only thing holding her together.

I leaned against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed, Carlo a silent shadow beside me. My body felt heavy, drained from the donation, but my mind wouldn’t quiet. It kept circling the same thought, again and again. How could someone care that much for a sibling? The bond she had with him—it was fierce. Protective. Almost maternal. Too intense to be casual. Too deep to be explained easily.

Too bad I wasn’t lovey-dovey with my own family. Vincenzo—my father—had drilled that out of me young. Emotions were weaknesses. Family was duty, not affection. Hugs were for the weak. Tears for the dead. Love made men stupid. Vulnerable. Easy to kill. I’d learned early to keep distance. Build walls so high no one could climb them. It kept me alive in this world. It kept me in power.

But watching her… it stirred something uncomfortable. Envy, maybe. Or regret. Or the faint ache of something I’d never had and never been allowed to want.

“Boss,” Carlo said low, breaking the silence. “You should eat. It’s been hours.”

I shook my head without looking at him. “Not leaving her.”

He nodded, didn’t push. Good man. He understood when silence was an order.

Talking of family, another wave of distress hit me. My own clan—the extended ones, cousins, uncles, men tied by blood and violence—were due back from the field any day now. Shipments secured. Deals closed. Bodies buried where they wouldn’t be found. They’d flood the mansion like a storm. Loud voices. Endless meetings. Whiskey flowing freely. Cigarette smoke curling into every corner. The house would fill up again, thick with noise and secrets and eyes that missed nothing. Too much for Isabella. She was already frayed—eyes hollow, shoulders slumped, running on adrenaline and fear. The noise, the scrutiny, the questions about the boy… it would break her.

I couldn’t let that happen.

“Carlo,” I said quietly. “Call the safe house. Prep it.”

“For who?”

“Her mother. The boy. When he’s out.”

He raised a brow but didn’t question. “And the mistress?”

“She stays with me.”

That was final. He inclined his head and stepped away to make the call.

I pushed off the wall and entered the room softly. Isabella didn’t look up at first. Her focus stayed on Ricardo, thumb stroking slow, repetitive circles over his knuckles, like she was grounding herself through the touch.

“Hey,” I said, voice low, careful not to break the fragile calm.

She glanced over, eyes red-rimmed but steadier now. Exhausted, but holding. “Giovanni.”

I pulled a chair close and sat beside her. The space felt intimate, quiet, heavy with unspoken things. “How’s he doing?”

“Sleeping. The doctor said the transfusion worked. No infection. He’ll wake soon.” Her voice caught despite her effort. “Thanks to you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She squeezed my hand briefly. Just once. But it was enough. “I have to.”

Silence fell. Comfortable, almost. The kind that didn’t demand words.

But my mind churned.

“Why do you care so much?” I asked finally. Couldn’t help it. The question slipped out before I could stop it.

She blinked. “What?”

“The boy. Your brother. You’re… devoted.”

Her gaze dropped back to Ricardo. “He’s family,” she said softly. “The only good part left.”

I nodded slowly. The words settled deep. “Must be nice. Having that.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “You don’t? With yours?”

I snorted softly, humorless. “My family? It’s business. Not love.”

“That’s sad.”

“Maybe.” I paused, then added, “They’re coming back soon. The others. From the field.”

Her body tensed instantly. I felt it even before I saw it. “When?”

“Any day. House will be full. Loud. Not good for you. Or him.”

She looked at me, worry creasing her brow. “What do we do?”

“I’ll move them. Your mother. The boy. To a safe house. After he recovers.”

She exhaled, relief flooding her face like she’d been holding her breath for days. “Thank you. Really.”

“It’s your request. I’ll make it happen.”

We sat like that for a while. Her leaning into me slightly, the contact subtle but telling. Me watching the boy breathe, counting the rise and fall of his chest without realizing it.

But something else gnawed at me. Her question from last night. In bed, after everything. Am I the only woman in your life?

It had come out soft. Hopeful. Too hopeful.

I’d answered quick. “Of course.”

Then she’d asked why.

“Duty,” I’d said.

The word felt wrong even then. Like a half-truth dressed as certainty. But it was true. Or at least, it had been.

Now, in the sterile light of the hospital, it haunted me. I had a bad feeling about it. Questions like that didn’t come without reason. What was she on to? Doubts? Rumors? Lorenzo’s poison words seeping in where they didn’t belong?

“Isabella,” I said carefully.

She turned. “Hm?”

“Last night. Your question.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, color rising despite the exhaustion. “Forget it.”

“No.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Why ask?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking to Ricardo, then back to me. “Just… wondering.”

“About?”

“Please, now is not the time for that.”

“Okay,” I said firmly.

She searched my face, eyes sharp despite everything. “Duty, right?”

I winced internally.

She didn’t press. Just nodded, like she’d already decided something for herself.

A nurse entered then. “He’s waking.”

Ricardo stirred, eyelids fluttering, a small frown creasing his brow.

Isabella straightened instantly. “Tesoro? I’m here.”

He blinked slowly. “Zia…?”

“Yes.” She smiled, tears welling again. “You’re okay. Brave boy.”

“It hurts,” he whispered.

“I know. But it’ll get better.” She kissed his forehead gently.

I watched it all. The tenderness. The love pouring from her like it was endless.

Envy twisted again.

“Giovanni?” Ricardo’s eyes found me.

“Yeah, kid.”

“Thank you. For the blood.”

I ruffled his hair gently. “Anytime.”

He smiled weakly.

The doctor came in next. Checked vitals. “He’s stable. Can go home in a day or two. Rest. No running.”

Isabella nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

Back in the hall, I pulled her aside. “The safe house. It’s ready.”

She hugged me quick, fierce. “You’re sure?”

“For you? Yes.”

Days blurred after that. Ricardo recovered fast—kid tough as nails. Isabella stayed by him every hour. Fed him. Read stories. Laughed at his jokes like nothing else in the world mattered.

I handled the move quietly. Her mother packed. Carlo drove them.

At the mansion gate, Isabella hugged Ricardo tight. “Be good. I’ll visit soon.”

He nodded. “Love you, Zia.”

“Love you more.”

Her mother squeezed my arm. “Thank you, Giovanni.”

I nodded. Watched the car pull away.

Back inside, the house felt empty. Quiet.

Isabella stood in the foyer, arms wrapped around herself.

“You okay?” I asked.

She turned. “Yeah. It’s safer.”

I pulled her close. “It is.”