The wind howled against the reinforced glass of my bedroom,
The wind howled against the reinforced glass of my bedroom, shrieking like a banshee through the canyons of the Gold Coast. I sat propped up by silk pillows that felt like slabs of concrete against my spine. My name is Dante Moretti, and I built an empire on the blood of my enemies. I have seen men beg for their lives in the dark, I have heard the sound of steel meeting bone, and I have never once flinched. But now, the enemy was inside me.
It was a cold that didn't come from the winter outside. It was a glacial rot that started in the marrow of my shins, crawling upward with the slow, deliberate pace of a predator.
My doctors, the men with the degrees and the soft hands, stood in the corner of the room. They whispered in hushed tones, their shadows dancing on the mahogany walls. Dr. Harris adjusted his spectacles, the light reflecting off the lenses like cold stars. He looked at the chart, then at the IV bag dripping clear poison into my veins.
"The core temperature is dropping again," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the heater.
I reached for a glass of water, but my hand betrayed me. The tremor was violent, the fingers rattling against the crystal like dry leaves.
Vanessa walked over, her silk gown trailing behind her like a pale cloud. She took the glass from my hand with a grace that felt practiced.
"Let me, darling," she said, her voice a smooth, expensive melody. She held the glass to my lips, her eyes watching me with an intensity I couldn't read. "You're going to be fine. The wedding is only six weeks away. We have so much to do. The caterers need the final count. The orchestra has been booked."
I looked into her eyes, searching for a flicker of grief, a hint of fear. But there was only a terrifying, static calm. She was a woman waiting for a clock to strike twelve.
I felt the first shiver of the night begin. It started at the base of my skull, a needle of ice that sent a jolt through my nerves. 2:17 a.m. was approaching. The time when the world turned to frost.
I looked at the doorway, where Elena stood in her simple uniform. She looked tired, her shoulders slumped under the weight of the laundry. But her eyes... her eyes were filled with a genuine, unfiltered sorrow. She wasn't looking at a mafia boss. She was looking at a dying man.
"Is your daughter here tonight?" I asked, my voice a hollow rasp.
The room went silent. Dr. Harris stopped his whispering. Vanessa’s hand froze on my forehead. Elena took a step forward, her fingers clutching the white towels.
"She's in the kitchen, sir," she replied softly. "She couldn't sleep. The storm was too loud."
I nodded, each movement of my neck causing a spike of pain. "Bring her here. I want to see her."
May you like
Vanessa straightened her back, her expression hardening. "Dante, this is hardly the time for guests. You need your rest. The doctors said—"
"I don't care what they said," I cut her off, the old authority flashing in my eyes. "Bring the girl."
