Enzo barely noticed the hours slip by in his study, his focus buried in paperwork and family matters. His mind was preoccupied with rival alliances, supply lines, and the ceaseless responsibilities of Cosa Nostra, leaving him little time for anything else. But something gnawed at him—a small, inexplicable feeling that he should check on you. You seemed unusually quiet at dinner the night before, your cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded.

His steps were quiet as he made his way down the dim hallway to your room. He paused at the door, listening for movement, but heard nothing. His hand hesitated on the handle before he pushed it open, careful not to make a sound.

The sight that greeted him made him stop short.

You lay tangled in the bed sheets, your face pale save for a feverish flush on your cheeks. Your brown hair clung to your forehead, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow and uneven. You muttered something incoherent, a faint, restless sound, and turned slightly, your brow creasing.