Chapter 4 A Bullet and a Promise

Salvatore Beaumont

Days later

The smell of the hospital is sterile and oppressive—a mix of alcohol, dried blood, and old plastic. The walls seem whiter than they should be, and everything around me pulses beneath an irritating fluorescent light that makes everyone look paler than they really are. The rough sheets cling to my sweaty back. I’m still dressed in a dark T-shirt, torn and stained with blood, and a pair of black pants someone at least had the decency not to cut off. My bare feet touch the freezing floor, and one of them slips slightly when I try to get out of bed.

I manage to reach the wall and, with a dull thud, slide down to the floor.

"You took a bullet, you idiot. You’re not supposed to be getting out of bed."

I cast a calm, almost condescending glance at my friend.

"I have a flight to catch. I’m not staying trapped in a bed like an invalid."

Andreas stares at me with his arms crossed, wearing a navy dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is combed back, as always, and his neatly trimmed beard sharpens the seriousness of his expression. Lya is bringing his light back—I can see it in his eyes.

We’ve been friends for a long time.

How did we meet? I was a bastard, officially and in every sense of the word. Until I was eleven, I grew up in a forgotten village in Sicily, raised by my grandmother, a drunk who used me as a punching bag. My mother did nothing more than give birth to me and move on with her life. At eleven, I was sent to live with my father in the United States, and from that moment on, I never heard from either of them again.

Now, at thirty-seven, my surname is Beaumont. And with it, every tie to my old life was ripped out like scorched roots.

Childhood wasn’t easy, but I learned to carry the weight of what I am. The name, the mafia, the blood. The burden of being a bastard stopped hurting with time. Andreas was always there. We never lost touch. Our families became intertwined through business, loyalty, and maybe one day, through blood as well.

I clutch the blood-soaked shirt against my chest, the stiff fabric rough beneath my fingers.

"I’ve had worse days. I just need a shower, and I’ll be good as new."

"Please don’t be stubborn, Salvatore," he sighs, exhausted. "At least stay until the bullet wound has started to heal."

"I can’t," I snap back firmly. "I need to go back. I’ve already been gone too long."

The thought cuts through my mind like a blade: Lizzie is alone in that house. Not the staff, not all the security in the world, can guarantee she’s truly safe. Maybe I’m being paranoid. My brother assured me he’d keep an eye on her, and Scarlett promised me everything was under control there.

But my control-starved mind won’t let me relax.

"Is it because of the girl?" he asks, like he already knows the answer.

"I promised I’d take care of her."

He tilts his head slightly, resting his chin in his hand.

"Are you sure this is only about protection? There isn’t any other kind of interest involved?"

"No," I answer too quickly. "She’s under my care. I’m only worried about her safety. She’s alone… without a man in the house."

With her father dead, no mother, and no close relatives, Lizzie is completely alone. She sees marrying Damien as a way out, a way to escape the loneliness and the emptiness left behind. She believes she’s honoring her father’s wishes, that he wanted her happiness above all else.

But she’s wrong. She’s clinging to an illusion, feeding expectations too fragile to hold up a future. She’s still too young to understand what the world is really like…

"So you’re flying back on the jet, then? Seems more practical."

"How’s your wife?" I ask, lowering my gaze. "I’m sorry I couldn’t bring her back safely."

He steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly in understanding.

"Lya’s okay. And none of this was your fault. I know I can count on you for anything."

"I don’t think even reincarnation would be enough for you to repay me for all the favors I’ve done for you," I joke, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. "But… are you really okay? Or is that just your way of dressing up the situation?"

"We’re rebuilding trust. I’ve practically humiliated myself begging for her forgiveness, and the baby… the baby is going to bind us even more. She’s everything to me," he admits, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "And you? How was Victor’s wedding? I wanted to go, but after Lya ended up in the hospital, I haven’t left her alone for a single minute."

"It was… good. I walked Ivy to the altar. And then it was over."

"And how did you feel?"

"I thought I’d be devastated, but I’m handling it better than I expected. That page is already turned. I’ve been keeping my mind busy dealing with some of Frank’s unfinished business. He left debts, and some of his assets are even under lien…"

I try to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"He was bankrupt?" Andreas asks, surprised.

"Everything points to yes. There were too many bills. Lizzie has no idea how bad the situation really is."

Andreas leans back against the bed, and I follow suit.

"You know you look terrible, right?" he comments, studying the state I’m in.

"Very encouraging of you," I mutter with sarcasm.

"Seriously, stay a little longer," he insists again.

"A week has already been more than enough, damn it."

"You never sit still, Salvatore."

"You sound like some worried little woman. It was just a bullet—I’m not going to die."

"Good thing it didn’t hit your head, or your stubbornness would’ve killed you before the bullet did," he shoots back without losing his acidic tone.

A weak laugh escapes me, and I press a hand to my abdomen, feeling the sting of the wound.