“If they learn of her existence, they could declare war.”
“They can try,” my brother Aurelio clipped.
“And if she resists?” I asked.
Cesar’s face remained impassive, his eyes like chips of obsidian. “That’s never stopped you before, Massimo,” he stated, his voice a silken threat. “I want her to crave the very thing she fears.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I will let Tommaso off his leash.”
Even I knew that was something none of us wanted. Instead, I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and smirked. “Consider it done.”
Chapter Six
Miranda
The fluorescent lights of the university library hummed a sterile symphony, a stark contrast to the low thrum of Harley engines that often vibrated through my bones. Here, amidst towering shelves of medical texts and the hushed rustle of turning pages, my ambition took flight. I devoured knowledge with a ferocity that surprised even myself, each dense paragraph, each intricate diagram of the human anatomy, a step closer to the future I envisioned. My fingers, usually steady during complex procedures in my practical classes, would tremble slightly with anticipation as I absorbed the life-saving information within the pages. It wasn’t just about passing exams; it was about mastering the art of healing, about understanding the delicate dance of life and death and my role in tipping the scales towards life.
My dedication was unwavering, a silent promise I’d made to myself in the quiet moments after Jackson had dropped me off, his gruff goodbye a familiar rumble against the roar of the city. While other students sought solace in late-night parties or fleeting romances, I found mine in the dissecting room, under the glow of my desk lamp, or in the hushed corridors of the hospital where I volunteered. I’d chosen obstetrics and gynecology with a specific purpose: to bring new life into the world, to offer a beacon of hope to mothers and children, particularly those who, like me, might have started their lives in uncertainty. The sterile smell of antiseptic became as familiarand comforting to me as the scent of leather and oil had once been. It was the scent of purpose, of a calling that burned brighter than any fear.
I saw my future as a vibrant tapestry, woven with threads of compassion and scientific prowess. The dream of opening a clinic in my hometown, close to my family, pulsed at the forefront of my mind. A place where anyone, regardless of their background or financial status, could receive quality medical care. I pictured it filled with natural light, a welcoming space that exuded calm and competence, a far cry from the shadowed underbelly of the world my family inhabited. I wanted to be a healer, a builder of life. This desire wasn’t a fleeting whim; it was a deeply ingrained conviction, a yearning to contribute something undeniably good to a world that often felt steeped in darkness.
Sometimes during my late-night study sessions, when exhaustion threatened to pull me under, I’d envision myself surrounded by a team, a diverse group of dedicated professionals, all united by the same passion. They would be at the forefront of medical innovation, perhaps contributing to research that could eradicate diseases, or developing new treatments that offered hope where there was none. These visions were my fuel, my motivation, the guiding stars that illuminated my path. I often sketched out floor plans for my hypothetical clinic in the margins of my textbooks, detailing everything from the color palette of the waiting room to the specific equipment that would be essential for advanced diagnostics. It was a way of bringing light to my aspirations, of breathing life into the dreams that consumed my waking thoughts.
My passion extended beyond the purely scientific. I’d spent hours studying the psychological effects of illness and trauma, understanding that true healing encompassed more than justphysical restoration, when a loud bang snapped me out of my daydreams.
Oliver, bless his impatient heart, found me hunched over my books, the faint scent of coffee clinging to me like a second skin. He arrived with a pizza box, his presence a welcome interruption. “Still cramming, Doc?” he teased, his voice laced with affection. “You know, there are other things in life besides memorizing the lymphatic system.”
“That’s because you can’t see past your next party,” I scoffed.
Oliver never truly understood the depth of my drive, the burning need to excel, but he respected it, nonetheless. He pulled out a chair and sat. His attention span was a fraction of mine; he spent most of his days coasting through his classes, always looking forward to the next party, or harping about some societal function his parents demanded he attend. Unlike me, Oliver was born with the world at his feet. He didn’t have to worry about anything and was given every advantage to succeed. Instead, he squandered it, choosing a life of perpetual ease thanks to his trust fund.
He gasped, his hand going to his heart. “You wound me, Doc. I’m only looking out for your nonexistent social life. Without me, you’d be all alone with no prospects.”
Rolling my eyes, I looked across the table at him and whispered, “I don’t need or want a social life. Besides, that’s why I have you.”
He threw his head back and laughed loudly, causing other students in the library to look at him and frown.
Throwing my pen at him, I whispered firmly, “Shush, you idiot. People are trying to study.”
“Whatever.” My best friend slowly got up and stretched. “Maybe if they got laid more often, they wouldn’t need to live in the books they read.” Holding up his hand to stop me from responding, he added, “All I’m saying is that you can’t spendyour life in books, Savannah. There is a big world out there, and whether you like it or not, it won’t stop spinning. Now, eat that pizza before it gets cold. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
With that, he left, and I found myself alone once more.
I knew he was right. My ambition was a stark, almost jarring juxtaposition to the world outside the confines of the university or the patched leather and roaring engines that perpetually hovered at the edges of my existence. Forgetting about my friend, I tried to immerse myself in my studies; however, the quietness of the library, once a comforting anchor, now seemed to carry a faint, dark undertone, a whisper of something dangerous beneath the usual gentleness of academia. I paused, tilting my head as if to catch a sound just beyond the range of normal hearing. It began subtly, so imperceptibly that I’d initially chalked it up to exhaustion, the cumulative fatigue of late nights spent hunched over textbooks and early mornings volunteering at the free clinic. A fleeting sensation, like the brush of a phantom limb, tickled along the back of my neck. A shadow, too solid for a trick of the light, flickered at the edge of my vision, only to dissipate when I turned my head. I dismissed it, a sigh escaping my lips, and tried to refocus on the intricate diagrams of fetal development and the delicate pathways of neural connections.
I’d been deep in a chapter on pharmacology when an unnerving awareness prickled my skin. It was a distinct, disquieting feeling of being observed. Not the casual glances of fellow students engrossed in their own studies, but a persistent, focused gaze that seemed to penetrate the very pages I held. I scanned the rows of towering bookshelves, my eyes darting between students, searching for the source, but found only the ordinary bustle of academic life. Yet, the feeling lingered, a persistent hum of disquiet beneath the surface of myconcentration. I attributed it to lack of sleep and continued on with my studies.
The next morning, I woke up and decided to visit Fratelli’s Delicatessen. As soon as I stepped inside, a genuine smile appeared on my face, prompted by the mouthwatering aroma of fresh pastries and rich coffee that filled the air. Every visit reaffirmed my belief that there was no better deli in the city—at least none I had discovered yet.
Fratelli’s was nestled in the heart of Little Italy, serving as the ultimate destination for anyone with a sweet tooth like mine. Its unbeatable selection of treats always satisfied my sugar cravings, making it my go-to place for a quick indulgence. The location was perfect: just far enough away from the university to offer a much-needed escape from the constant cycle of classes and assignments, yet close enough to downtown to remind me why the bustling energy of city life never quite suited me.
Oliver was right. Since moving to Chicago, my life had revolved entirely around school, studying, and exams. I made little time for anything else, and the constant cycle was exhausting. Desperately needing a sugar fix, Fratelli’s was just what I needed.
“Ciao, Savannah!” Mr. Fratelli called out, his voice cheerful as ever. I glanced over the array of delicious treats displayed before me, my mouth already watering.
“Buongiorno, Mr. Fratelli,” I replied, offering him a smile.
