Page 50 of Fire and Silk

At the doorway, Domenico stood frozen. His face had gone bright red, blotched like a man in shock. He was gripping his chest with one hand, fingers clawed into the fabric of his shirt as if he could hold himself together through will alone. His knees buckled slightly, and he took one step forward—then another—and then he collapsed.

Straight down.

His shoulder slammed into the edge of the threshold, his body crumpling like a rag soaked in water. His chest rose , then not again.

I blinked.

“You have to be kidding me,” I muttered.

Another guard shouted something unintelligible. I didn’t respond.

I was still holding her. Still feeling the tiny pull of air dragging through her throat. Still counting the space between each breath like it might buy me time.

****

The light in the room had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, the air cool from the ventilation reset. Someone had brought in a fresh linen sheet and draped it over her body while the doctor worked—one of mine, of course, not a civilian. Hername was Alma, and she’d been fixing bullet holes and broken bones for my family since she was twenty-three.

Lira’s body lay still on the mattress, her chest rising evenly beneath the sheet. A fresh oxygen line curved gently around her face, resting under her nose. Her hair had been pushed back from her forehead; the damp strands tucked behind her ears. A cuff beeped softly as it registered her pulse, steady now, just above resting.

Alma adjusted the stethoscope, placed it low on the girl’s ribs, and listened for a moment before leaning back. She removed the device from her ears and snapped it around her neck.

“You got to her just in time,” she said, turning toward me. “No permanent trauma. No hypoxia, no vascular strain. She fainted halfway through—likely a psychological response, not physiological. Panic. Claustrophobia, maybe.”

I nodded and crossed my arms, watching the girl’s mouth shift slightly as if chasing a thought in sleep. Her eyelashes fluttered, then stilled.

Alma stood straighter and peeled off her gloves. She snapped them off and let them fall into the bin near the bed.

“You always play games, Severo,” she said, slipping her coat sleeve down and fastening the button. “But I want you to know—this one’s different. She’s fragile. Maybe too fragile for your little entertainment.”

I smiled at her, slow and soft.

She returned it, all teeth and calculation.

“But I’m not fragile,” she said. “So come play with me sometime.”

She winked.

I chuckled under my breath, stepped forward, and pressed a kiss to her lips—light. No heat, but enough to make her grin.

“Invite accepted,” I said.

She brushed her coat smooth and turned to the door.

“This is how I know I won’t see you until someone’s bleeding again,” she said, already halfway down the hall.

I watched her go, let the scent of antiseptic fade behind her, then turned down the corridor that led to the far recovery room. A smaller wing. Quieter. One I used when the estate got loud.

He was there.

Domenico.

They’d moved him after he collapsed—tucked him into the guest cot with a saline drip and the full vigilance of my men rotating every half hour.

I stepped toward the door and pushed it open, fingers tapping against the frame.

He was lying on his back, breathing deep, arm flung across his torso like he’d passed out mid-confession.

His legs dangled slightly off the end, boots gone, undershirt rumpled and sweat-stained. A crease had formed along the side of his face from where he’d been turned against the pillow. His chest rose steadily now. Whatever episode had taken him earlier had passed.