Price of Blood

Chapter 25: Giovanni POV

It was a Sunday morning—the kind of morning that begged to be ignored under the covers. But no such luck for me. Duty called, and I had a half-day shift at the hospital that wouldn't wait for my reluctance to wear off.

With a disgruntled groan and sleep still clinging stubbornly to my eyelids, I took the quickest bath imaginable and hurtled downstairs, clinging to the hope that breakfast might have magically appeared.

No one in this house so much as blinked before eight on a Sunday, and I had no reason to believe Cecelia would break the tradition. Still, my stomach was already protesting the injustice of an empty morning, especially knowing I'd likely miss lunch altogether. Worst case, I'd grab an apple and call it mercy.

But to my astonishment, the kitchen greeted me like a warm spell—sunlight filtering through the windows, the scent of toasted bread in the air, and Leo? Leo is the last person o would expect to see here this early in the morning. And not just Leo—Leo surrounded by a proper breakfast spread.

The last person I would expect to see here this early in the morning, unless he'd sleepwalked straight from his bed to the toaster. And yet there he was—hair a tousled mess, but very much awake and attacking his food.

Two types of sandwiches, neatly stacked like treasure, and a bowl of boiled eggs arranged with the care of someone who knew exactly what early morning miracles looked like. I blinked, half-convinced I'd sleepwalked into someone else's Sunday.

Well, luck was clearly on my side today. I wasted no time piling my plate with food—two sandwiches, one of each kind, and a perfectly peeled boiled egg. I bit into the first sandwich, half-expecting the usual bland, hurried affair. But to my surprise, it was... delicious. Simple, yes, but toasted just right, with a sort of homemade charm.

As I savoured the unexpected delight, the quiet morning began to stir to life. Milo sauntered in, all sleepy eyes and wild hair, followed shortly by Via, already chatting about something only half the room could understand.

Soon the kitchen was alive with clinking cutlery and sibling banter. They laughed, passed around napkins, argued over sandwich superiority, and turned the quiet Sunday morning into something warm and oddly perfect.

Milo was eating with such single-minded ferocity it was as if breakfast had personally wronged him. Sandwich halves vanished in seconds, eggs disappeared without trace, and I could only watch in stunned silence for a moment before I found my voice.

"Leave some for Xavier!" I almost yelled, staring at him in disbelief.

He waved me off with a half-eaten egg, and I stepped out with a smirk.

I hated to leave just as the day was beginning to breathe, but duty doesn't pause for pleasant mornings. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I made for the door.

The moment I walked into the hospital, the sterile scent and muted hum of machines greeted me. But the taste of that breakfast—warm toast, melting cheese, and the rare feeling of being exactly where I was meant to be—lingered on my tongue like a quiet secret I carried into the day.

My shift passed in a blur—a dizzying carousel of injections, whispered instructions, medication charts, and quiet footsteps echoing through polished hallways. Most of it was routine, and yet, beneath the sterile scent of disinfectant and the rhythm of medical precision, there was always something more humming in the walls of our hospital.

Rounds were the most important part of all. Not because they were particularly dramatic, but because of who we treated. Our hospital wasn't just private—it was discreet, almost sacred in its vow of silence. The kind of place where doors closed a little more quietly, and files disappeared from the system just as easily as they appeared.