Chapter 5 - Whispers in the ICU
Emma’s chest heaved as she stared at the intimidating, blood-splattered man standing beside her hospital bed.
The sheer power radiating from Vincent was overwhelming, making the sterile room feel impossibly small.
“Please... don’t hurt me,” Emma gasped, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she pulled the blanket up to her chin.
“I don’t have any money... I just work at the restaurant... please.”
Vincent’s heart shattered into a million pieces at her words.
To see the proudest bloodline of the East Coast reduced to begging for mercy tore him apart from the inside out.
He slowly took two steps backward, keeping his open hands visible, trying to make his massive frame appear harmless.
“No one is going to hurt you, Emma,” Vincent said softly, his voice dropping into a gentle, soothing baritone.
“I will tear down the sky before a single hand touches you ever again.”
Emma blinked through her tears, confused by the strange mix of terrifying authority and aching tenderness in his eyes.
“How... how do you know my name?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“And why are you covered in blood?”
Vincent looked down at his ruined cuffs, then back into her frightened hazel eyes.
“The man who struck you will never walk the streets of this city again,” Vincent stated, not hiding the truth.
“My name is Vincent Moretti.”
Emma gasped, the name sending a cold jolt down her spine.
Even living in her quiet, secluded world, everyone in New York had heard the whispered legends of the Moretti syndicate.
The ruthless shadow king who governed the underworld with an iron fist.
“The... the mob boss?” Emma stammered, shrinking further into the bed.
“Why are you here? Why do you care about a waitress?”
Vincent stepped forward slowly, kneeling once again so that his eyes were level with hers.
He reached toward his own chest, pulling out a small gold chain from beneath his shirt.
Hanging from the gold chain was a ring—a heavy signet ring carved with the exact same crest as her silver pendant.
Emma looked from his ring down to her own chest, touching the hidden pendant through the hospital gown.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
“You wear the seal of the Romano family,” Vincent said gently, pointing to her chest.
“You believe you are Emma Davis, an orphan who grew up in foster homes across Queens.”
“That was a lie created to keep you breathing.”
Emma shook her head frantically, refusing to accept the impossible words pouring into her ears.
“No... no, my parents died in a car crash when I was twelve! That’s what the state records say!”
“Your parents were King Anthony and Queen Elena Romano,” Vincent answered, his gaze unwavering and resolute.
“They ruled an empire that made the billionaires of Wall Street look like beggars.”
“Fifteen years ago, their estate was ambushed and burned to the ground by traitors.”
“Your father put this pendant around your neck, hid you in the trunk of a trusted courier's car, and told you to forget everything to survive.”
“Your mind buried the trauma behind a wall of amnesia to protect your sanity.”
Emma’s hands began to shake violently as fragments of long-buried nightmares flashed behind her eyes.
The smell of burning timber.
The deafening sound of automatic gunfire tearing through marble walls.
A man with kind, sorrowful eyes placing a cold silver pendant around her neck and whispering: ‘Run, my little star, run and never look back.’
A sharp pain lanced through Emma’s skull, and she cried out, clutching her temples.
Vincent immediately moved forward, forgetting his distance, and wrapped his arms around her trembling body.
“Breathe, Emma. Just breathe,” he murmured into her hair, holding her securely against his solid chest.
“You don’t have to remember everything tonight. You are alive, and that is all that matters.”
Emma wanted to push him away, to run from this dangerous, terrifying man.
Yet, as his strong arms encircled her, an inexplicable wave of profound warmth and ancient safety washed over her soul.
Her body recognized him even if her broken mind did not.
She collapsed against his broad chest, burying her face into his shirt, sobbing out years of loneliness, fear, and confusion.
Vincent held her tightly, closing his eyes, letting her tears soak through his ruined linen.
Over her shoulder, Vincent’s eyes opened, cold, sharp, and dead.
Marco stood at the doorway, giving a sharp nod.
Senator Marcus Vance’s motorcade had just been spotted leaving his private estate in upstate New York, heading toward the private airfield.
The traitor was trying to flee the country.
Vincent pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Emma’s hair.
May you like
“Rest now, my queen,” he whispered so softly she barely heard it.
“I have a kingdom to reclaim for you, and a traitor to execute.”
