Holding Ground

The suite was quiet except for the soft hiss of the kettle and the distant hum of the estate settling for the night. Bella sat beside Luca on the couch, the blanket pulled securely around him, a damp compress pressed gently to his forehead. His body drifted in and out of half-consciousness, heat flushing his skin, lashes heavy, lips dry and faintly parted.

She stirred the cup of herbal tea slowly, watching the steam curl upward before lowering it toward him.

“You should drink something,” she said softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from his temple.

“I… can manage,” he whispered, his voice rough, scraped thin by fever. His fingers brushed her wrist weakly, then slipped back to his side, the effort already too much.

Bella shook her head, firm but gentle. “No. You’ll sip it. Slowly. And you won’t argue.”

A faint, rasping breath left him. Something like a chuckle, if he still had the strength for it. “You’re relentless.”

“Correct,” she replied, calm as stone.

He obeyed, taking small sips while she steadied the cup. The warmth grounded him slightly, easing the tremor in his hands, though the heat under his skin still burned stubbornly on. Bella stayed close, adjusting the blanket when his shoulders shifted, replacing the compress when it warmed too much in her palm.

She did not leave his side.

Elsewhere in the estate, the tension did not rest.

Marco, Don Vittorio, and Don Giovanni stood gathered in the study, the low murmur of strategy threading through maps, live feeds, and phones that never quite stopped vibrating. The city lights beyond the windows felt distant, almost irrelevant.

“We need to change everything Alessandro and Alessia think they know,” Marco said, tracing a route across the table with his finger. “They were fed information that puts us at risk. That ends now.”

Don Giovanni’s expression remained controlled, unreadable. “Agreed. Containment and misdirection. Their loyalty has shifted, but they’re not acting blind.”

Vittorio glanced at a small screen, then back at the others. “Keep the Valenti estate occupied. No leaks. No patterns. If we have to move tonight, we’re ready.”

Marco nodded once. “I’ll handle operations. The Moretti connection gets severed. Quietly.”

“No mistakes,” Giovanni said evenly. “One slip and everything collapses.”

Back in the suite, Bella placed a small bowl of broth on the coffee table. She lifted a spoonful carefully and guided it to Luca’s lips. He managed a tentative sip.

“Slowly,” she murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Just little by little.”

She continued, spoon by spoon, letting him take each mouthful at his own pace, her hands steady, her presence grounding him.

“That’s enough for now,” she said gently. “Your body needs rest.”

He nodded faintly and leaned back into her, finally surrendering a little of his weight. Bella wrapped an arm around him without hesitation, steadying him there. She didn’t think about hunger, or time, or anything beyond keeping him steady.

As she pressed a hand to his forehead again, frowning, she felt the heat spike higher than before. His skin burned under her touch, pulse hammering against her fingers. His shallow breaths carried a faint rattle, and his eyes fluttered with exhaustion.

“That’s… worse,” she muttered under her breath, her mind working quickly. He wasn’t just tired; the fever had climbed, and sitting here wouldn’t help it break. She needed to act.

“Luca,” she said softly, helping him to sit upright. “We’re going to get you cooled down. Come on, let’s move.”

He blinked at her, too weak to protest, the heat leaving him too foggy to argue. She supported him firmly as she guided him toward the bathroom. Each step was careful, measured, her body acting as shield and anchor.

Once inside, Bella lifted the shower handle. Cold water ran immediately, sharp and unforgiving.

“We’ll try this,” she murmured.

Luca stood in the shower, shoulders hunched, fever weighing him down like lead. “Bella…” he started, but his voice faltered, no strength left to finish.

“Shhh,” she whispered, pressing her hands firmly against his back, sliding her arms around his waist to anchor him close. “I’ve got you.” She held him tight, steadying his trembling body against the shock of the cold water.

The cold water hit him sharply, stealing his breath. He shivered violently, fingers curling instinctively, but Bella held him upright, pressed against her. Her own body trembled from the shock of the icy water, but she stayed steady, absorbing the cold with him, keeping him from swaying or slipping.

Their foreheads nearly touched, and for a moment, Luca’s eyes fluttered closed, letting the heat of her body, the steady pressure of her arms, anchor him. He drew a shaky breath, grounding himself in the sensation of being held, of not having to fight alone. Bella’s cheek brushed his shoulder, her warmth a quiet contrast to the cascading water, a lifeline in the midst of his fever and weakness.

“It’s colder than the Morettis’ hearts,” he muttered weakly.

She huffed softly, despite herself. “Focus on surviving, not commentary.”

Slowly, the fever began to ebb. His breathing steadied, each shiver less violent than the last. Bella’s hands stayed firm on his back and under his arms, holding him upright, pressing him gently against her to keep him from swaying. The cold water still ran over them, soaking her hair and clothes, but she barely noticed, her focus entirely on keeping him steady, safe.

When she finally guided him out, she wrapped him in a thick towel, the warmth seeping into his damp skin. She held him close, her arms around his shoulders and torso, letting him lean against her, every small shiver absorbed by her steady presence. She could feel the lingering chill of the water on her own skin, but it didn’t matter—the moment was only about grounding him, keeping him upright, keeping him safe, until the fever eased completely.

“You really are stubborn,” he murmured, his voice rough, each word heavy with fever and exhaustion.

“I’m your wife,” she said, pressing her hand firmly to his chest, letting him feel every beat. “I have to be. I have to keep you safe.”

He let out a weak, shivering breath, tilting his face toward her touch. “And… I let you,” he whispered, almost too faint to hear. “Even like this… I trust you.”

Bella lowered her head, brushing her forehead against his gently, steady but determined. “You don’t have to fight alone,” she murmured. “Not while I’m here.”

He closed his eyes briefly, then leaned slightly into her, letting the warmth and grounding presence anchor him even as the fever still raged. “I… feel it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Even through this heat. I feel you.”

Bella squeezed his hand over his heart and guided his shoulders back, keeping him upright. “Good,” she whispered. “Then just stay with me. Let me do this.”

She stayed with him as he rested, silent and vigilant.

Across the city, the air was very different.

The room smelled of smoke and old money.

Don Silvio Moretti sat at the head of the table, hands folded, expression composed in the way that suggested calculation rather than calm. Alessandro stood near the wall, jacket still on, jaw tight, fingers flexing with barely restrained violence.

Alessia sat opposite him, posture immaculate, her composure precise enough to hide the fury coiled beneath it.

“They know,” she said at last. “Santoro. Valenti. They know about our alignment.”

“And yet,” Silvio replied slowly, “they live.”

“For now,” Alessandro snapped. “I had him.”

“Weak doesn’t mean careless,” Silvio said coolly.

“I should have killed him.”

“That would have been inefficient.”

Alessia leaned forward then, control cracking just enough to reveal steel beneath. “Don’t confuse survival with victory. He’s wounded. Exposed. And Bella was there.”

That was enough.

Alessandro’s hand clenched. “She chose him.”

“She chose power,” Silvio corrected.

“She chose Santoro,” Alessandro shot back.

Alessia’s voice dropped, sharp and cold, venom wrapping around every word. “And if I can’t have Luca Santoro,” she said, deliberate and steady, “then Bella Valenti doesn’t get to keep him either.”

The room went still.

Alessandro turned to her, something dark igniting behind his eyes. “Say that again.”

“She took what was meant to be mine,” Alessia continued evenly. “I won’t let her walk away untouched.”

Silvio watched them both, measuring. “Emotion clouds judgment.”

“Emotion sharpens it,” Alessandro said, anger no longer contained. “You want escalation? You’ll have it.”

“Not yet,” Silvio said. “Fear works better when it spreads.”

He rose slowly. “Santoro bleeding but alive sends a message. One we can still use.”

“And when the time comes?” Alessandro asked.

Silvio smiled thinly. “Then we make sure he doesn’t get back up.”

The room fell silent.

Across the city, Luca Santoro lay wrapped in blankets, fever finally beginning to break, unaware that the next move had already been decided.