Chapter 1 - The First Pulse
The silence of the medical wing was absolute, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the refrigeration units. Underneath the thin cotton sheet, the frozen weight of Lorenzo Moretti’s chest shifted.
Hannah did not dare to breathe. Her eyes widened in the dim blue emergency light as she pressed her palm harder against his ribs.
Thump.
A single, heavy heartbeat.
It felt like a hammer striking iron. Then, a second later, another beat followed—slow, labored, but undeniably real. The toxic paralytic agent that Dr. Caldwell had assumed was a death sentence had apparently reached its peak and begun to break down, its molecular structure battered by hours of clinical hypothermia that had inadvertently slowed Lorenzo's metabolism just enough to keep his organs from rotting.
And then there was the heat. The steady, undeniable body heat Hannah had poured into him, wrapping her frame around his frozen shell like a living furnace.
"Lorenzo," she whispered, her voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears spilled over her cheeks.
Slowly, agonizingly, the muscles in Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. A low, gravelly groan ripped through his throat—a sound that had not been heard in that room since 11:42 p.m.
His eyelids fluttered. Thick, dark lashes parted, revealing eyes that were no longer clouded by the glassy stare of a corpse. They were sharp, dark, and utterly piercing.
Lorenzo’s head turned slightly. He stared up at the concrete ceiling, then down at his own chest, and finally, his gaze shifted sideways to find Hannah lying right beside him on the narrow medical table, her hair disheveled, her gray uniform pooled on the floor, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.
For a long moment, those dangerous eyes softened—just for a fraction of a second—before a fierce, razor-sharp intelligence returned.
"Miss... Bell?" he rasped, his voice sounding like dry stones grating together. He tried to lift his arm, but his muscles were still trembling with residual poison. "What... are you doing?"
"I... I didn't want you to be cold," Hannah stammered, her face burning with deep embarrassment as she scrambled to pull the sheet over herself, her instinct telling her she had overstepped, that the powerful mafia boss would be furious at her audacity.
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Instead, Lorenzo reached out with a trembling, ice-cold hand and caught her wrist before she could move away. His grip was weak, but his intent was absolute.
"Don't move," Lorenzo ordered softly, his voice gaining strength with every beat of his heart. "Stay right here."
