Page 52 of Ivory Crown

Enzo responded with a nonchalant shrug, his gaze not wavering from the surgeon’s. “Just making sure we’re on the same page here. My son gets the best care possible.”

The surgeon held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding slightly. “Go home. Get some rest. He’ll be here for a few days, and he needs to recover.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Enzo said, dismissing him with a slight tilt of his head. The surgeon inclined his head in response before stepping out of the room, leaving us alone with our thoughts and the steady rhythm of Marco’s heart monitor.

Enzo met his words with a curt nod, but I could tell from the slight tightening around his eyes that he had no intention of leaving Marco’s side. Our father might have been a man feared and respected in the underworld, but beneath that cold exterior was a dad who loved his sons, even if he had an odd way of showing it.

At least…I thought so.

I watched as Enzo moved closer to Marco’s bed, his large hand engulfing Marco’s smaller one. His thumb gently traced over the back of Marco’s hand in a rare display of tenderness that momentarily threw me off-guard. It was easy to forget that underneath his fierce exterior was a sentimentality few ever saw.

“You should go home too, Dante,” he said. “Isn’t your girlfriend waiting for you?”

“But-” I began to protest. I wanted to stay; I needed to be there for Marco. But he cut me off with a sharp glance.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he said in that calm unyielding tone that meant there was no arguing with him.

“Okay.”

Now that Marco was out of immediate danger, something inside me unclenched. “I’ll be back,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. The weight of the Moretti name felt like a brick on my shoulders as I turned and left the room, each step away from Marco’s bed pounding like a judge’s gavel in my ears.

“Take care, kid,” I said softly, casting one last glance over my shoulder at Marco, whose eyes had slipped closed again. He was a fighter; we both were—it was in our blood. But sometimes, I wondered if there was anything worth fighting for beyond these walls, beyond the life we’d been handed.

The truth was a bitter pill—no matter how far I walked, I could never truly leave.

Stepping outside, the chill of the early morning air hit me like a slap in the face. The city was still asleep, the streets near-empty as I made my way to the parked car. I slid behind the wheel, and the engine roared to life, breaking the silence of the dawn. The drive home was mechanical, muscle memory guiding me through the deserted streets while my mind replayed the night’s events.

I pushed through the front door of the building and then went up the elevator, the familiar scent of old wood and lingering cologne greeting me. That’s when I saw her, Jade, sprawled on the couch, her figure swallowed by an oversized coat that didn’t belong to her.

“Jade?” I called out softly, but there was no response, just the steady rhythm of her breathing. I knew that coat—it was meant for escape, not comfort. She had plenty of blankets and sweaters and access to the heater so…she had been planning to escape.

A pang of something sharp twisted inside me, a mix of anger and relief. She had tried to leave but exhaustion or maybe fear had stopped her.

“Luca!” I barked out, expecting my loyal guard to appear, but the penthouse remained silent. My footsteps echoed off the walls as I approached her, crouching down to get a better look. She was out cold, her chest rising and falling with the deep breaths of the truly spent.

“Dammit, Luca,” I muttered under my breath. It was unlike him to abandon his post, especially with Jade here. He knew how important it was to keep an eye on her—too much was at stake. I reached out and gently shook her shoulder. “Jade,” I said again, this time a little louder, my voice betraying none of the softness I felt.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at me, dazed. For a moment, she didn’t seem to remember where she was or why. Then her gaze sharpened, and she tried to sit up, her movements sluggish.

“What...Dante?” Her voice was thick with sleep and confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Because I live here. Where else would I be?” I retorted, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. I needed answers, but I wasn’t about to interrogate her when she was barely awake. Her eyes flicked down to my shirt then widened in alarm.

“Your shirt...there’s blood,” she stammered, pushing herself up. The concern in her voice was genuine, but I brushed it off.

“It’s not mine,” I said curtly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Dante...” She reached out, her hand hovering over the dark stain on my shirt, but she pulled back before touching me. “Talk to me. Please.”

I sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze. This wasn’t the time for weakness, not when there was so much at risk. But looking into her earnest eyes, filled with worry and something that looked dangerously like care, I felt the walls I’d built crack ever so slightly.

“Marco got shot tonight,” I admitted, the words tasting sour on my tongue. “He’s alive. He’ll make it.”

She processed this for a second. “Marco…”

Shit. Of course she didn’t know.

“My little brother.”

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