Accardi (Genevieve and Matteo) by Allison Franklin novel Chapter 153

**Chapter 153**

**Rafael**

Timing was everything, a lesson he had absorbed early in life. In the world of hospitals, where chaos often lurked beneath the surface, a certain order prevailed—one that followed a rhythm as predictable as a heartbeat. Guards would exchange their posts, nurses would drift in and out, and as night descended, the lights would dim, casting a gentle hush over the sterile corridors.

It was in this quietude that Rafael chose to move.

The hallways were steeped in silence, broken only by the soft thud of rubber soles against the polished floor and the distant, rhythmic beeping of machines behind closed doors. He glided through the shadows, a mere wisp of a presence, until he reached her door, which yielded to his gentle push.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with stillness. Too still, save for the persistent beeping of her monitors that punctuated the silence. There she lay, the center of his world, her skin pale and mottled with bruises, her silver hair fanned out across the pillow like a halo of spilled light.

Wires snaked around her, gauze wrapped her fragile limbs, and stitches marred her skin—trappings that felt foreign to her spirit. This was not the woman who had faced pain with a smirk, who had teased him even as she leaned heavily against him, her strength waning.

Rafael closed the door quietly behind him and approached her bedside, taking his time. There was no need for haste; no one knew he was here. He stood there, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, each breath a reminder of her resilience. Even in her broken state, she emanated a force that tugged at something deep within him. It was the same irresistible pull he had seen in Enzo’s eyes, in Nico’s gaze, a magnetic quality that even her adversaries found impossible to ignore.

“My nona used to tell stories,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, almost as if she had prompted him to share. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a small crystal fox, its tails elegantly flared and eyes sparkling in the dim light of the machines. He placed it carefully on the bedside table, angling it toward her pillow. “Of the volpe dalle nove code,” he continued, his tone light yet laden with meaning. “A creature of many faces. One day a maiden, the next a monster. She could ensnare a man in her charm or guide him home, leaving him uncertain of which was which. Fire danced in her step, and smoke lingered in her laughter. Always just out of reach.”

Leaning against the edge of the bed, he positioned himself close enough to feel her presence, to breathe in the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the remnants of smoke that clung to her hair. Beneath those scents, there lay something else—something warm, undeniably human.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You wear more faces than the fox ever did, volpacchiotta,” he mused, his voice filled with a blend of admiration and teasing. “The artist, the dancer, the fiancée, the survivor. Men would bleed themselves dry just to keep up with you.”

His gaze fell to her hand, resting limply on the sheet, bandaged and bruised. He refrained from touching it, allowing the weight of unspoken words to linger in the air.

“You cast spells without even trying,” Rafael said softly, amusement threading through his voice. “And everyone obeys.”

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