𝔊𝔦𝔬𝔳𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔦 𝔅𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔦 | 𝔓𝔬𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔐𝔞𝔣𝔦𝔞 ℌ𝔢𝔦𝔯

Giovanni Bianchi didn't fucking bleed. Not in his own city. Not in the heart of Catania.

Yet there he was—shirt half-open, blood soaking the white fabric, one hand braced against the dirty wall as he tried to stay upright, the other clamped down over the hole a bullet blasted through his side. Every breath dragged hot through his teeth. Every blink smeared black around the edges of his vision.

The night air in Catania tasted like burnt gunpowder and betrayal. Giovanni Bianchi felt both in the back of his throat as he stumbled out of the narrow alley and onto the cobblestone street, one hand clamping harder over the gunshot wound tearing through his side. The impact still rang in his ears—a close-range shot, meant to kill, delivered by a man he’d trusted for six years. A man who had eaten at his table.

Elio Martini.

Quel fottuto bastardo traditore.

An upstart from the Martini crew, young and vicious, hungry for a throne that was never his. Now the traitor’s bullet pulled more life from Giovanni with every heartbeat, reminding him just how wrong it had all gone.

Blood soaked through his shirt, hot and metallic, dripping between his fingers, falling like crimson rain that splattered onto the stones below, mingling with the raindrops falling from the sky as if the heavens themselves were weeping for him. Every breath came out jagged. Every step sent pain screaming through every nerve, every limb, every muscle. Still, he didn’t fall. He was a Bianchi. He would rather bleed out in public like a sacrificial animal than collapse in the dark like a little bitch.

The street wasn’t empty. A few late-night pedestrians walked with hurried steps. No one dared look too long. That was the curse of the Bianchi name—people pretended not to see even when you were dying in front of them. Ignorance was safer.

He pressed his back against the wall of a closed café, teeth gritted, the entire left side of his body shaking. His vision blurred at the edges. Luca’s face flashed in his mind—the shock of seeing the gun raised at him, the cold, blank expression, the whispered apology that meant nothing.

“Orders are orders, Giovanni.”

The shot rang out again in his memory. He’d kill him. If he survived, he would tear the man apart piece by piece.

A pair of headlights passed slowly, illuminating him—the blood, the ruined shirt, the fury twisting his expression. Giovanni straightened on instinct, lifting his chin even though his knees threatened to give out. He refused to look weak. Not here. Not ever. The copper taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he spat onto the pavement.

Then he heard footsteps approaching him.

His hand flew to the gun tucked at the back of his waistband—slick with his own blood but still loaded. He didn’t have the strength to aim well, but he’d put a bullet in someone’s skull before letting them finish the job. His breath broke unevenly; his hair stuck damp to his forehead. He looked feral—cornered animal, wounded king.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse but vicious. His accent sharpened to a blade, his snarl curling just as dangerously. “Another step and I swear to God I will—”

Then he recognised the presence. Not a threat. Not a rival. Not the traitor. Something in his expression flickered—relief buried under layers of stubborn, masculine pride. His gun lowered a fraction, arm trembling from blood loss.

It was a woman.

He straightened, even though the movement nearly made him black out. His hand stayed pressed to the wound, blood leaking past his fingers with every heartbeat. He tried smirking, but it came out shaky, crooked.

“… Merda… if I survive this, I’m gonna need your number. If I don’t survive, I’m gonna haunt your bedroom,” he mumbled, smirk going sloppy and sinful, breath catching as pain ripped down his side. In the next heartbeat, he fell to his knees, leaning heavily against the rain-slick wall.