His Villain

12. Dante Russo

The room hung in an eerie silence, enveloped in an air of stillness. A woman lay motionless on the bed, her presence stagnant for the past three arduous hours. Save for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, one could easily mistake her for a lifeless vessel tethered to an intravenous drip.

Dalia, her mind fraught with unease, had summoned Warren to apprise him of the dire situation. Restlessly pacing from one corner of the room to another, she delved into the realm of possibilities, contemplating the grim reality that awaited them. What if she, too, had become entangled in this web of misfortune?

Suddenly, a faint movement from Celia's hand disrupted her ruminations, drawing Dalia's attention. She hurriedly made her way to Celia's side, her body quivering with trepidation. Perspiration clung to her temples and upper lip, despite the chill permeating the room. Celia was once again consumed by fever.

Panicked, Dalia gently tapped her cheek and inquired, her words formed with painstaking deliberation, "Can you hear me?" Her lips moved slowly, enunciating each syllable with care.

Could it be a harrowing nightmare that plagued her?

"Enzo, call the doctor!" Dalia exclaimed, her voice carrying an urgent plea. Her assistant swiftly darted off to summon the doctor, while she reached for a water bottle on the nearby table, deftly twisting off the cap. "Do you need water?" she inquired, her voice filled with concern. Celia weakly lifted herself from her prone position, nodding ever so slightly, attempting to sit up but failing miserably. With gentle guidance, Dalia assisted her in drinking the water, carefully easing her back onto the bed.

Celia's body throbbed with discomfort as she tried to move, her senses gradually returning, albeit at a languid pace. In the background, faint footsteps reverberated, drawing closer to her vicinity. A doctor, accompanied by a nurse, hastened to her side. With measured movements, the doctor retrieved a thermometer and assessed her temperature. Unchanged, it remained at a scorching 108.6°F. Celia's pallid countenance, coupled with her chapped lips, lent her an ethereal visage akin to that of a ghost. The IV attached to her left hand emitted a soft, rhythmic sound-drip, drip, drip-piercing the otherwise tense atmosphere in the silent chamber.

"Her condition has not improved in the slightest. Her fever remains unyielding, and her stitches have come undone. We must suture her wound again to prevent the risk of infection," the doctor relayed, his voice filled with gravitas, before requesting some privacy to attend to the matter.

The previous stitching had not been executed with utmost precision due to Celia's raging fever. However, they could not afford to take any chances or subject her to further pain or complications.

Celia, though not fully conscious, could feel the intense agony coursing through her body as the needle pierced her thigh. Her parched throat rendered her voiceless, unable to emit even the faintest scream or cry. It was as though an unfathomable weight had been ruthlessly imposed upon her, an excruciating torment inflicted repeatedly. Tears welled in her eyes, her figure trembling as it fought valiantly against the overwhelming pain. The torture persisted for what felt like an eternity, yet lasted only fifteen minutes. Eventually, exhaustion claimed her, and she succumbed to slumber, perspiration drenching her entire body, the indifferent air conditioner offering little solace. After changing her into fresh garments, the doctor and nurse departed, leaving Dalia with an update on Celia's condition.

Warren, gasping for breath, halted abruptly at the threshold of Celia's room. His trembling hand swung open the door, revealing Celia's motionless form, a sight that stirred a wellspring of unshed tears within his eyes. Scanning the room further, he noticed his girlfriend seated on a stool near Celia's bed, her expression filled with worry. Meanwhile, her assistant occupied the couch, diligently typing away on a laptop. Sensing his presence, Dalia rose and gestured for her assistant to leave, a command that he promptly obeyed.

"Come," she said softly, choosing her words with utmost care, as she approached Warren. However, he sidestepped her, his voice carrying a demanding tone. "Who is responsible for this?" His narrowed gaze scrutinized Dalia's countenance, as he closed the distance between them in purposeful strides. Firmly grasping her arms, yet with a gentleness that betrayed his desperation, he beseeched her in a soft voice, almost pleading, "Please, tell me who did this to her?" A lone tear glistened at the corner of his eye, a manifestation of his anguish. Dalia understood that Warren would never resort to such supplication unless the person in question was Celia, or even herself. She comprehended the extent of his protective nature, a willingness to sacrifice anything for Celia. The depths of their shared history, the bond that forged an unbreakable connection, was known only to them. Overwhelmed with guilt for her betrayal towards her boyfriend and the true perpetrator behind Celia's affliction, her throat constricted.

"Warren, I will reveal everything to you in due time, but please take care of her. I must leave now, please wait for me. I'm sorry," she whispered softly, clutching his shirt sleeve as a solitary tear trickled down her cheek. Grasping her purse, she departed, and he did not impede her departure. Instinctively, he recognized that something was amiss, a feeling that dissuaded him from confronting the truth at that moment, save for attending to Celia.

She remained their primary concern, their shared responsibility.

Approaching Celia's side, Warren gently clasped her right hand, running his thumb tenderly over her knuckles. "Why must you be so reckless? He will never let you go now, not after witnessing you in this state," he lamented to her unconscious form, fully aware that she would never willingly relinquish the one thing she had yearned for so fervently. Relinquishing her hand, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

"She is at City Hospital. Inform them she does not need to be found," he instructed the recipient on the other end. "And if they inquire further, inform them that she had been inebriated and was with her friends." Concluding his directives, he terminated the call. Seated on the stool, he remained fixated on the window across the room, lost in contemplation. The remnants of his composure gradually dissipated as the door burst open with a resounding thud, revealing a hulking figure framed in the doorway.

Dante Russo...