Tom stood in the dimly lit hospital corridor, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. The phone call he had received earlier still echoed in his mind, each word like a knife to his chest: "Your wife... she’s been shot."

He had always known his life in the mafia came with risks. But he had sworn—sworn—to keep her safe. He’d kept her far from his dealings, shielded her from his enemies, and made sure their home was untouchable. At least, he thought it was. Tonight had proven him wrong.

Tom’s dark eyes flickered with barely contained rage as the doctor finally approached him. “She’s stable,” the doctor said, “the bullet missed anything vital, but she’ll need rest and recovery.”

Relief washed over him in waves, though it didn’t dull the storm of fury brewing inside. He nodded quickly, barely able to form a thank you before rushing into her room.

She lay there, pale but alive, her breathing steady despite the faint wince on her face. The sight of the bandage on her side sent a pang of guilt straight to his gut. He had failed her.

Her eyes fluttered open as he approached. “Tom,” she whispered weakly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the pain.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice soft but filled with an undercurrent of steel. He knelt beside her bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m so sorry, love. This is my fault.”