Just as Matteo reached for the door, his phone vibrated.
The sharp buzz broke the stillness like a ripple across glass.
His hand hovered on the handle, his chest tightening, the sound pulling him back into the world he wished he could ignore.
He glanced down—an incoming call. No name flashed, just the number.
For a second, he considered letting it ring out.
But instinct overrode hesitation.
Matteo never ignored calls, not truly. Not when everything he built depended on control.
He stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with deliberate care.
The click was soft but final, sealing Felix back inside the quiet hum of machines.
The air outside felt colder, sharper. The sterile corridor lights hummed above him, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Matteo exhaled slowly, bracing himself, before answering.
"Matteo speaking," he said, voice low, still rough from the storm of emotions he refused to show inside.
His free hand dragged through his hair, fingers pressing against his temple as if he could press the heaviness away.
Bianca's voice came steady and clear. "Boss, there's movement at the east warehouse. One of the trucks just pulled in. Unscheduled."
Matteo stilled. His mind snapped back into the language of strategy, of caution. "Is it ours?"
"No plates. Windows tinted. Driver stayed inside. Looks like they're testing our attention."
His jaw clenched. He shifted his weight against the wall, his thumb brushing the cool metal of his cufflink. "Don't confront. Let them park. I want eyes only. No one approaches."
"Copy that." Bianca hesitated for half a breath before adding, "Do you want me on site?"
"No. Stay where you are," Matteo ordered, sharp but measured. "Assign Nico and Enzo. Quiet rotation. I want eyes on that entrance twenty-four-seven until I say otherwise."
"Understood." Her voice carried no argument, only efficiency.
For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick, heavy.
Matteo's gaze traced the empty hallway ahead of him, but his thoughts pulled in two directions.
One, toward the warehouse shadows.
The other, behind the door he had just left.
"Send me a report in an hour," he said at last.
"You got it."
The line went dead. Matteo lowered the phone, holding it loosely by his side. He didn't move.
The corridor pressed in around him, quiet but suffocating.
He could hear faintly—through the door—the steady, mechanical rhythm of Felix's machines.
Two wars. One of business. One of heart. Both demanded him.
With a deep inhale, he slipped the phone into his coat pocket and turned back toward the room.
His steps were slower this time, heavy with something Bianca never saw—the weight of choice.
The days blurred.
One became two. Two became seven.
Life continued its relentless pace—meetings stacked, signatures demanded, deals circled in red ink. Matteo's world never allowed him pause, but something in him shifted.
He no longer rushed. He let the phone ring three times before answering.
He let Bianca carry more of the noise. He even ignored a call once—just once.
Control remained his, but quieter now. Sharper.
And every evening, without fail, the car pulled toward the hospital. No one asked where he was going anymore. They knew.
Inside, the room barely changed. The machines still hummed.
Felix still lay still—pale, lashes brushing against unmoving cheeks.
Time had slowed here, trapped in the stillness of waiting.
Matteo always paused at the doorway. For a man who feared nothing, this door had become his battlefield.
Eventually, he entered. His footsteps lost their sharpness, softer now, almost reluctant.
He pulled the chair close, sitting as though settling into ritual.
His cufflinks glinted in the low light, but the stiffness of his movements betrayed the weight on his shoulders.
He set his phone on the table, screen down. "Another day," he murmured. His voice was lower than usual, as though afraid to disturb the quiet.
"Bianca says the shipment arrived early," he went on, trying for casual. His lips quirked faintly, but the smile never reached his eyes. "I didn't yell this time."
The silence that answered him was sharper than any retort.
"You'd find that funny," he muttered. His gaze remained fixed on Felix's face. "Me, not yelling."
Minutes passed like that. The sound of his own breathing filled the room, uneven against the steady rhythm of the monitors.
Finally, his hand rose to his mouth, rubbing over it in a rare, unguarded gesture. His voice dropped into a confession. "Doctor says you're healing. Skull intact. Vitals steady. Just…" He exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight. "You're still not here."
The weight of those words hung heavy. Matteo's chest rose, fell, but the silence pressed harder.
His throat worked. His next words were barely audible. "You're not… punishing me, are you?"
His eyes closed briefly. Shame flickered across his features, raw in a way no one had ever seen from him.
"For being the bastard I was?"
No answer.
He turned his gaze aside, unable to meet the face that refused to respond. For Matteo, silence was worse than any blow.
"I keep thinking…" he began again, but his voice wavered. He steadied it, forcing the words out. "Maybe you don't want to wake up. Maybe you don't want me to be the first face you see."
The thought alone cut deeper than any betrayal. Still, he stayed.
"But I'll keep showing up anyway," he said, firmer now.
The chair creaked softly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. For long minutes, he simply sat in silence, watching, waiting. Hoping.
Finally, he rose. Adjusted his coat. Every movement crisp, controlled. But his hands lingered on the chair a moment longer than necessary.
"I'll be back tomorrow."
He reached for the door. His fingers brushed the handle—then paused. Slowly, he turned back, eyes resting on Felix's still form.
His voice dropped to something only the walls might have heard. "Don't keep me waiting too long."
The days stretched on.
Nurses came and went. Guards rotated at the hallway post.
Bianca updated him in clipped tones about warehouses, shipments, accounts.
But no matter what else demanded him, Matteo's evenings ended here.
And every time, he found himself saying something. A report. A story. A confession he'd never planned to voice.
One evening, he told Felix about the time he refused a partnership from Seoul. "Too vague," he explained, lips twitching with dry amusement. "You'd have laughed. Said I was too cautious."
Another night, he sat in silence for nearly an hour, watching Felix breathe, the minutes ticking by. When he finally spoke, his voice was ragged. "I don't know what I'll do if you don't open your damn eyes."
No one heard those words. No one but Felix. And maybe—that was enough.
By the end of the second week, Matteo's reputation had shifted quietly.
The men whispered—not of weakness, but of something sharper.
He was colder in meetings, less forgiving with mistakes.
Yet at night, he disappeared into the hospital.
For a man known for control, the contradiction was almost legendary.
But only Matteo knew the truth.
Every file, every decision, every ruthless strike at business—all of it meant nothing compared to the single, unmoving figure he sat beside each evening.
And as he left Felix's room one night, his reflection caught in the hospital glass.
For the first time, Matteo saw himself not as a boss, not as a strategist, but as a man stripped bare—waiting, hoping, terrified of losing the only person who had ever truly seen him.