In the hospital corridor—a private clinic the Valenti Family kept on quiet retainer—we unexpectedly ran into Alessia.
It looked like she had hurt her foot and was struggling to hop down the hallway on her own, one hand braced against the pale wall. Even injured, she carried herself like a woman who understood exactly what kind of room she occupied and who would be watching.
Damien, who had been gentle just moments before, instantly frowned. Forgetting I was beside him, he rushed over to Alessia and held her, asking in concern, "What happened?"
Alessia smiled at him, looking past him toward me. Her gaze landed on mine with the precision of someone who had already catalogued every detail she needed.
"It's just a sprained ankle. What a coincidence; you two are here for a checkup too?"
Damien's expression froze. He glanced back at me, his eyes shifting, and I watched his hand drift to the strap of his watch and adjust it—a small, careful correction, as if the leather had suddenly grown too tight.
"Yeah, my 'little sister' here had a bit of a fever, so I brought her in for a check-up."
I had grown used to being called "sister" by now. From the moment Damien decided not to go public with our relationship, he introduced me as his friend's little sister, someone he was helping to look after. An associate's kid sibling in need of a roof—nothing that would raise questions at sit-downs, nothing that would complicate his position within the Valenti hierarchy or his careful courtship of allies who expected a man of his rank to remain unattached or, at the very least, strategically matched. Only his closest circle knew of our true relationship, and even they treated it like a fact best left unspoken—an arrangement tolerated under the broader umbrella of Omertà, the code that kept every inconvenient truth exactly where it was: silent.
Alessia nodded. "She's staying at your place, so of course, you have to look after her carefully. You two go on; I need to head over there." She gestured toward the other clinic on the opposite side of the corridor.
Seeing her start hopping again, Damien didn't think twice before scooping her up in his arms. The motion was fluid, automatic—the kind of reflex that lives in the body long after the mind has tried to bury it.
"Let me take you over. Elena, wait here for me."
For some reason, as soon as I saw Alessia, I suddenly felt weak, drained of all energy. I leaned against the wall, saying nothing. The corridor smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral—her perfume, still hanging in the air where she had stood.
Damien hadn't actually asked for my permission. After those words, he was already carrying Alessia toward the other clinic, her arm looped around his neck, her face tilted close enough to his jaw that she could have whispered anything and I would never have heard it.
The fact was, no matter how well he acted, when faced with Alessia, genuine feelings slipped through, betraying the facade. The careful underboss, the man who weighed every word at every sit-down, forgot himself completely when she was in the room. And Damien didn't even realize it.
I forced a bitter smile, turned, and walked to my own clinic.
Apparently, it wasn't just in my head; after checking my temperature, I learned my fever was as high as 41.3°C. The burn had become infected, worsened by my recent emotional stress, leading to a viral infection that required IV treatment. The attending physician—discreet, paid well for his silence—noted the wound on my wrist without comment, though his eyes lingered a beat too long before he wrote the prescription.
Out of habit, I reached for my phone to call Damien, but stopped myself before dialing. My thumb hovered over his name, and for a moment I could feel the shape of every call I had ever made to him from rooms exactly like this one—waiting rooms, hallways, the quiet corners of front-business offices where I sat alone while he handled something more important.
Habit was a terrifying thing.
I gave a self-mocking smile, put my phone away, and headed to the IV room alone.
