The days blurred together in the sterile quiet of the hospital. The soft hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of nurses' feet became a constant in Giovanni's life. His exhaustion was visible in the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the weariness that refused to fade, even after days of being at Alessia's side. But despite his fatigue, Giovanni remained steadfast. He couldn't leave. Not yet. Not while she was still clinging to life.

Alessia had not woken up.

Every hour felt like a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, and the silence was unbearable. Giovanni sat in a chair beside her bed, his eyes fixed on her pale face, trying to decipher any sign that she was coming back to him. Her body was still, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator, but her eyes—her eyes remained closed.

His mind raced through every possible scenario. What if she never woke up? What if the overdose had taken too much from her? He couldn't allow himself to entertain that thought. Not yet.

Once warm and full of life, her hand lay cold in his. Giovanni squeezed it, hoping for some response, even the slightest movement. "Alessia," he whispered softly. "Please, come back to us."

But no answer came.

The room was thick with tension, with unspoken fear and a sense of helplessness that gnawed at Giovanni's insides. Every time the doctors came in with updates, they offered no real answers, only vague reassurances that the next few days would be crucial. But the uncertainty was maddening. The thought of losing her, of never hearing her voice again, made Giovanni's chest tighten in ways he hadn't known were possible.

Sandro visited when he could, but even he couldn't hide the concern in his eyes. Their family was fractured—Alessandro was still recovering from his own injuries, their father's absence felt deeply—and now Alessia, the youngest, the one they had all protected in their own ways, was lying unconscious, fighting a battle neither of them fully understood.

Giovanni wanted to scream, to demand answers from the doctors, but he held back, knowing there was nothing anyone could do except wait. The wait was agonizing. He had always been the protector, the one who took care of everything, but now he was helpless. He couldn't protect her from her own demons.

Days passed in a haze of hospital lights, quiet conversations, and the never-ending rhythm of Alessia's heart monitor. Giovanni spent every waking moment by her side, his thoughts a whirlwind of guilt and regret. He wished he could take back all the moments he'd failed her, all the years he'd been too focused on the family business to truly see her suffering.

But now, as he sat there, holding her hand, the only thing left to do was wait. And hope.

The weeks stretched on, and Giovanni's patience began to wear thin. Alessia remained unconscious, her body still in a state of fragile balance. The doctors had told him there was a chance she would wake, but it was uncertain. Each day felt like a test of his resolve. He could barely focus on anything else. Even the work he usually threw himself into, the dealings with the family's business, seemed meaningless now. Nothing mattered except Alessia.

His brothers had their own ways of coping, each of them dealing with the weight of their past in their own manner, but Giovanni couldn't seem to pull himself from the abyss of his guilt. He should have done more. He should have seen how deep her pain ran. But Alessia had always been quiet, always kept to herself. She had carried her burdens alone for too long.

And now, he was left in the wake of her silence, not knowing how to fix what had broken.

One evening, after another long, fruitless day at the hospital, Giovanni found himself alone in the hallway. His mind raced through every conversation he'd ever had with her, trying to grasp anything that would explain why she had felt so alone. Why had she felt so worthless?

"She's not gone yet," Sandro said as he approached, his tone gentle. Giovanni looked up, his face grim.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Sandro," Giovanni muttered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I can't keep sitting here, watching her fight this fight without knowing if she'll win. It's tearing me apart."

Sandro's hand landed firmly on his brother's shoulder. "I get it, Gio. I do. But this isn't about fixing everything right now. It's about being here, not for her to wake up and tell you she's fine, but just to be with her in this moment. She doesn't need you to save her. She needs you to show up. Just show up."

Giovanni's chest tightened as he stared at his brother. He knew Sandro was right. But how could he show up when every moment felt like an eternity? How could he sit there, knowing Alessia was fighting for her life, unable to do anything except wait for a sign?

The uncertainty gnawed at him, day and night. What if she woke up and hated him for not being there when she needed him most? What if she couldn't ever forgive him?

But no matter how much doubt clouded his mind, Giovanni knew one thing for certain: He couldn't leave her now. No matter how long it took or how much it hurt, he would wait for her to return.