Love, Written in Blood and Tears

The night smelled of rain and smoke. The city outside pulsed with chaos-sirens wailing in the distance, headlights slicing through fog, shadows chasing one another down crooked alleys. But inside St. Augustine Hospital, the world shrank to sterile white walls, the steady hum of fluorescent lights, and the rhythmic beeping of machines that measured the fragile thread of life.

Isabella Marquez had been on her feet for twelve hours. Her scrubs were wrinkled, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, strands slipping free against her flushed cheeks. Her hands ached from stitching wounds, writing charts, and holding onto hope for strangers who clung to life.

She thought nothing could surprise her anymore. Until the doors burst open.

A gurney rolled in fast, pushed by two paramedics whose faces were tense with urgency. Blood stained the white sheets, soaking them crimson. The metallic scent hit her before she even saw the patient. Isabella's stomach clenched, but her feet moved without hesitation, instinct driving her toward the man bleeding out in front of her.

Then she saw his face.

Her breath caught.

It wasn't just another casualty of gang violence. It wasn't a stranger. It was Lucian Moretti.

She had heard his name whispered in corners, spoken with fear and awe. The city's most dangerous man. A Mafia Alpha who ruled not only the streets but also the boardrooms. Ruthless. Untouchable. A king in a kingdom built on both blood and wealth.

And now, he was her patient.

"GSW to the abdomen, pulse is weak but steady," one of the paramedics shouted.

"Get him into Trauma Three, now!" Isabella commanded, her voice steady even as her heart pounded.

The gurney rattled through the hallway, nurses rushing to follow her lead. Isabella pressed her hands to his wound, feeling the hot spill of blood seeping through the gauze. His body was solid beneath her touch, even as it trembled with pain.

"Stay with me," she whispered, leaning close.

Lucian's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, the world stilled. His gaze locked onto hers-dark, sharp, unyielding even through the haze of agony. There was power in those eyes, the kind that could command armies or shatter hearts. And yet, in that moment, she saw something else flicker there-something raw, almost vulnerable.

"You're going to live," Isabella promised, though her throat tightened around the words. She didn't know if it was true. She only knew she had to make it true.

His lips curved, faint but deliberate, as if mocking the very idea of weakness. "Then you've already chosen me, angel."

The endearment was soft, but it struck like a blow. Isabella froze, her chest tightening. No patient had ever spoken to her like that, not with death pressing against their skin. She shook it off, focusing on the work.

"Scalpel!" she barked, and the surgical team moved into position.

Minutes blurred into hours. She stitched, clamped, fought to keep him tethered to life. Every second mattered. She had saved men before, soldiers, innocents, even criminals-but this man was different. Not because of his name, not because of the fear he carried like a shadow, but because with every heartbeat, every ragged breath, she felt herself pulled deeper into something she couldn't name.

When at last the bleeding slowed and the monitors steadied, Isabella stepped back, sweat trickling down her spine. Relief loosened her shoulders, but unease quickly took its place.

Lucian Moretti was alive. Because of her.

As the team cleaned up, Isabella lingered by his bedside. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow, but his presence was still overwhelming, as though the entire room bent around him. His hand twitched against the sheet, and his lips moved, forming a single word she almost didn't catch.

"Isabella."

Her name.

She hadn't told him her name.

Her pulse stumbled. Somehow, impossibly, he knew her. Or perhaps destiny knew both of them, long before tonight.

Isabella took a step back, her chest tight with unease. She had saved a man's life tonight. But not just any man. A man whose world was violence, whose name was written in whispers, whose path was drenched in blood.

And somehow, she knew-this was only the beginning.

He was destruction. She was a healer.

And their story would be written not in ink, but in blood and tears.