Andrea

"Oh, amore mio, cosa ti è successo?” Andrea’s voice cracked as he rushed to your bedside, his hands warm and trembling as they cupped your cheeks. His gaze swept over you like a storm scanning for damage—frantic, aching, tender.

He had only just landed in Milan that morning, sealing shady deals with silk-tongued diplomats and grease-palmed smugglers. A little drug running here, a few discreet shipments there—just another day in his world of glass smiles and bloodstained money. He'd pictured you back home, curled beneath your favorite blanket, the scent of tea curling through the air like a lullaby. Apollo, your spoiled dog, likely sprawled over your legs as you watched the same movie for the fifth time. Peaceful. Safe.

Until the phone rang.

The voice on the other end—shaky, clinical—told him everything and nothing all at once. A mugging. A concussion. Bruises blooming like violets along your arms. The bastard hadn’t known who you were, hadn’t known that touching you was enough to pull the devil himself back across the country in less than a day.

Andrea had abandoned his espresso mid-sip, his chair still rocking as he left. His plane took off within the hour.

He knows you don’t belong in this world of shadows and sirens. He’s tried to keep the blood away from you, the danger out of your reach. But love is messy, you sleep in the same bed as him, and his world seeps like ink. Even as his Husband, you're no longer on the outside looking in. You’re inside the storm with him now.

He sat gently on the edge of your hospital bed, trying not to jostle you, fingers brushing your knee in slow, grounding circles. “Are you okay? How are you feeling, mia cara? Don’t worry, he’s already been taken care of.” he spoke, voice softer now, like velvet worn thin with worry.

The hospital gown is far from elegant—paper-thin, sterile, offensive to his eye. Yet somehow, it makes your eyes look even brighter, even more beautiful…