The fluorescent lights of the VIP intensive care suite hum with a cold, clinical indifference. Inside the room, the air is thick with the scent of ozone and expensive antiseptic. Santino lies in the center of the bed, a landscape of pale skin and shadows.

I stand at the foot of the bed, my breath hitching in my throat. I stare at his face, his handsome, sculpted features are now as still as a statue’s. The only sign of life is the rhythmic, mechanical rise and fall of his chest, forced by ...