The room was too white—like it had been scrubbed of life.
Too still, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Machines hummed softly in the background, blinking steadily like they were the only ones still breathing.
And there—centered in the bed, fragile under the hospital sheets—was Felix.
Matteo stepped in without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, he didn't move. Just stood there. Watching.
Felix's face was pale, bandaged high on the left side of his forehead.
The gauze was clean now, but Matteo could still see the blood in his mind.
His hair had been trimmed back near the wound.
The rest lay dark and soft against the pillow.
Wires ran from his chest. An IV dripped beside him. His hand—God, that same hand Matteo had held just hours ago—rested motionless above the sheet, fingers curled loosely.
Matteo moved toward him, each step careful, as if the wrong movement might shatter the fragile world holding Felix together.
He sat.
The chair gave a faint creak, but Felix didn't stir.
Matteo's gaze roamed his face again, then fell to his hand. He reached out—stopped halfway. His fingers hovered, uncertain.
Then he took it.
Felix's hand was cool. Soft. Still too light.
Matteo brought it to his lips.
"You idiot," he murmured, voice barely more than breath. "You weren't supposed to bleed for me."
He looked up again. At those eyes that wouldn't open.
At the stillness that didn't belong to him.
"I told you to stay behind." His jaw tensed. "Why didn't you just listen?"
His thumb moved slowly across Felix's knuckles.
Silence.
No reply.
And Matteo suddenly leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still holding that hand in both of his.
His shoulders trembled—not a sob, not quite—but something raw and close.
"I would've taken the bullet," he whispered. "Every damn time."
The monitors kept blinking.
Steady. Steady.
Matteo sat there for a long while. Still. Silent. Hand never letting go.
And somewhere deep inside that still room, he made a promise.
One he didn't speak aloud.
But it burned quietly in his chest.
The black car pulled up without a sound.
Its engine silenced, but the tension it brought slid into the air—slow, heavy, and impossible to clear.
Four suited men stepped out first, shoulders square, eyes already scanning the hospital entrance.
Then the back door opened.
Don Luciano Romano stepped out slowly—no rush, no wasted movement.
He adjusted his coat sleeve with a flick of his wrist, gaze cold as stone beneath the brim of his hat.
His cane clicked once against the pavement before he began walking.
He didn't look left or right.
He didn't need to.
The hospital doors slid open for him.
The guards didn't ask questions—they just moved.
Two nurses whispered near the reception desk.
One caught his gaze, froze mid-sentence, and quickly looked down.
The hallway was quiet when he reached it, his footsteps deliberate. Echoing.
Room 306.
He stopped at the door for only half a breath before turning the handle.
Inside, Matteo stood beside Felix's bed, hand still loosely wrapped around Felix's fingers.
The sight of his father in the doorway made his spine stiffen instantly. He straightened.
"Father..."
The slap landed sharp—an explosion in the stillness, echoing off the sterile walls like a gunshot.
Matteo's head jerked sideways.
Before he could react, the second slap came—harder, raw with fury.
Matteo's face turned the other way, and this time, he didn't look back up.
He stood there, head bowed, jaw clenched.
Don Luciano didn't shout.
His voice, low and cold, hurt far more.
"You were supposed to protect him."
Matteo's throat tightened.
"He's not just your fiancé. He's Carlos's boy—the son of the man who died with his last breath putting your hand in his."
His voice cracked. Just slightly. He caught it.
"He trusted you."
Matteo's fingers curled.
"I failed," he said quietly.
Luciano's eyes glinted. "You think that's enough?"
Silence.
"I can't face Carlos until we get justice for Felix," the old man said, softer now, but no less lethal. "This blood on your shirt? That's a promise."
He looked down at Felix. Pale. Still. So young.
"Who were they?" he asked without looking away.
Matteo swallowed. "No ID yet. No faces. They vanished."
Luciano turned his head, slowly, gaze hard. "Then find them."
Matteo nodded.
"Whoever they are," Luciano said, voice like iron, "I want them dead."
No hesitation.
No forgiveness.
Just law, in blood.
Don Luciano didn't say another word.
He gave Matteo one last long look—stern, unreadable—then turned and walked out.
His men fell into step beside him, silent and watchful, like wolves flanking their alpha.
The hallway swallowed them one step at a time until all that remained was the fading tap of his cane.
Matteo exhaled slowly.
He glanced at Felix, still unmoving, his chest barely rising beneath the pale sheets.
His hand reached out, brushed a curl from Felix's forehead, lingered—then dropped.
His phone buzzed.
He stepped out into the corridor and answered with a sharp, "Talk."
A gruff voice responded. "We lost him, boss."
Matteo stopped walking. His grip on the phone tightened.
"What do you mean you lost him?" His voice was cold, but it trembled with a dangerous edge.
"He slipped through the alley. Took out one of the spotters and disappeared into the docks. We checked the cameras—they went black five minutes after he passed."
Matteo ran a hand down his face, dragging it down his jaw.
He turned, kicked the wall.
A nurse peeked around the corner and quickly disappeared.
"You had one job."
"We know, sir. But… we got something."
Matteo turned back, still breathing heavy.
"What?"
"One of the runners overheard a name. Not at the scene—but earlier. A whisper. A meeting. Boss, we know who's behind it."
The silence stretched.
"Say it," Matteo demanded.
The voice on the line hesitated.
"It's… The Fox."
Matteo froze.
His heart slammed once against his ribs.
Disbelief and fury tangled in his chest, fighting for space—until only the name remained.
His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
Then, quietly, like a name he never wanted to say again:
"Frankie?"
"Yes, sir."
Matteo closed his eyes.
His jaw clenched.
He lowered the phone slowly from his ear, staring at nothing.
The Fox.
Of all people… it had to be him.