Accidentally Yours Chapter 103

**Rafael**

Timing was everything. He’d learned that young. And hospitals, for all their order, ran on predictable rhythms. Guards swapped. Nurses changed shifts. Lights dimmed for the night cycle.

That’s when Rafael moved.

The hallways were hushed, nothing but the soft pad of rubber soles and the low hum of machines behind closed doors. He slipped through like smoke, a shadow trailing edges, until her door gave under his hand.

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet, save for the steady beep of her monitors.

She lay still in the center of the bed, skin pale beneath bruises, silver hair fanned across the pillow like spilled light. Wires, gauze, stitches—fragile trappings that didn’t suit her. Not the woman who had bled with a smirk, who had mocked him even as she sagged in his arms.

Rafael shut the door behind him and crossed the room, slow, unhurried. He didn’t need to rush. No one knew he was here.

He stood at her bedside, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Even broken, she radiated something that curled under the skin. A pull. The same pull he’d seen in Enzo’s eyes. In Nico’s. In the way even her enemies couldn’t seem to leave her untouched.

“My nona used to tell stories,” he murmured, almost conversational, like she’d asked. His hand slid into his pocket, drawing out a small fox carved of crystal, its tails flared, its eyes glinting in the machine light. He set it on the table beside her, angled toward her pillow. “Of the volpe dalle nove code \[nine-tailed fox\]. A creature with many faces. A maiden one day, a monster the next. She could trick a man into chasing her, or lead him home without him knowing which was which. Fire in her step. Smoke in her laughter. Always out of reach.”

He leaned on the edge of the bed, not close enough to touch, but close enough to breathe her in. She smelled faintly of antiseptic, smoke still clinging to her hair. And beneath it? Something else. Something warm, human.

His lips curved faintly. “You wear more faces than the fox ever did, volpacchiotta \[little fox\]. The artist. The dancer. The fiancée. The survivor. Men bleed themselves dry just trying to keep up.”

His gaze drifted to her hand resting slack against the sheet, bandaged and bruised. He didn’t touch it. Just let the thought linger.

“You cast spells without trying,” Rafael said softly, the amusement curling under his words. “And everyone obeys.”

He straightened, coat whispering as he moved back toward the door. The fox gleamed under the monitor’s glow, throwing fractured light across her pillow.

“Wake soon, little fox,” he murmured, voice low, casual, almost a parting joke. “The game’s no fun if you stay asleep.”

And then he was gone—no sound, no trace—like he’d never been there at all.

**Nico**

The war room stank of burnt coffee, steel, and too many bodies running on no sleep. Maps stretched across the table, markers bleeding red and black into the outlines of Vegas. Jake’s laptop threw static across the speakers as he muttered into his headset, tracking Russian chatter. Dom and Gino argued low in the corner, voices sharp but tired.

Enzo stood over it all, the weight in the room. His bruises had faded into shadow, but the exhaustion still clung like smoke. When he finally spoke, everyone stilled.

“Dmitri wants a meeting.” His voice was calm, but every word had an edge. “I’ll take it myself.”

That landed like a knife. Dom opened his mouth, but Enzo’s stare cut him off.

Then his gaze shifted—direct, unblinking—onto Nico. “You’ll handle the transfer. Lola moves tonight. Private care. Penthouse is ready.”

For a second, Nico just held that look. It wasn’t a request. It was trust—and a test. He gave a short nod. “Consider it done.”

They hadn’t been back long before Lola stirred—lashes twitching, ribs hitching shallow under the sheet. Nico straightened, muscles tense, but Enzo was already leaning in.

Her eyes cracked open, hazy but sharp enough to cut. “Please don’t fall on the ground this time,” she rasped.

For a second, Enzo just froze—like the sound of her voice was both salvation and torture. Then his mouth tugged, wrecked but real. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Her lips curved, faint but stubborn. “Almost die, or get taken twice in a year? Gotta be some kind of record.”

Nico swallowed hard, watching the way Enzo broke and held all at once. He bent over her, thumb brushing her cheek with reverence Nico had never seen him give anyone. Not once.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against hers, breath shuddering. He stayed there for a long moment, anchored to her like he couldn’t afford to let go. Nico had to look away; it was too raw, too intimate.

Finally Enzo straightened, shoulders squaring, steel slipping back into place. “I’ve got a meeting with Dmitri,” he said, voice low. His gaze cut to Nico. “You get her home.”

The words hit like a weight—responsibility, trust, command—all dropped squarely on Nico’s chest. As Enzo passed, his hand came down hard on Nico’s shoulder. A simple touch, but loaded, like he’d just placed the crown of his empire there. Nico’s throat locked tight.

Enzo moved for the door.

“Excuse me, Mr. Maraschi—” Lola’s voice cracked but sparked, even bruised and stitched together. “If you don’t kiss me before you leave, I will break your legs.”

Nico’s mouth twitched despite himself. That was her. Bruised, battered, but still fire.

Enzo’s laugh was raw, but he obeyed. He bent and kissed her—hungry, desperate, ruined. Nico’s chest tightened until it hurt, because he’d never seen anything that looked more like survival.

When Enzo pulled back, she caught his wrist, voice faint but certain. “I’ll see you at home?”

“Always,” Enzo said, low and final.

Then he was gone, leaving the room colder, emptier.

Nico stayed silent, jaw tight, watching Lola settle back into her pillow with her eyes still hazy. He couldn’t shake the weight of what he’d just witnessed: Enzo shattered and whole, Lola alive and still sparking, and himself caught between loyalty and a love he couldn’t bury anymore.

The quiet after Enzo left wasn’t peaceful. It pressed in, heavy, like the air was waiting for something to break. Lola closed her eyes again, her breathing uneven but steady enough. For a minute, Nico just sat there, the weight of Enzo’s command still burning in his chest. You get her home.

He dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion scraping him hollow, but his body wouldn’t let him sit still. He rose slow, ribs complaining, and moved to the window. Guards paced below in the floodlit lot, rifles slung, shadows shifting in restless arcs. Locked down, just like Dom said. And still, it didn’t feel safe enough. Not here.

When he turned back, his eyes snagged on something small near the side table. A sliver of light caught on glass.

He stepped closer, frowning.

It was a fox.

Clear crystal, no bigger than his fist, tails flaring like a fan. Fine enough work that the edges seemed to glow, sharp but delicate. It hadn’t been there before. Nico knew that much. His stomach knotted tight.

He picked it up, turned it in his palm. Cold. Perfectly placed. Like a calling card.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

Lola blinked her eyes open, slow, confused. She reached for it, fingertips tracing the sharp lines. Her brow furrowed. “Never seen it. Cute, though.” Her gaze lifted to his, something flickering sharp in the green. “Were there guards in here?”

Nico’s jaw locked. “No. They said it was quiet. Nobody went in.”

The silence that followed was razor-wire. Someone had been here. Close enough to leave a gift at her bedside, to walk right past armed men and vanish again without a trace.

Nico closed his fist around the fox until the edges dug into his skin. “We’re done here,” he muttered, already reaching for his phone. “You’re not spending another hour in this place.”

He slipped the fox into his pocket, cold against his thigh, and called for the team.

The hospital walls felt thinner by the second, every shadow a threat. Enzo had trusted him to get her home. Nico wasn’t about to fail.

Not now. Not with her.