He Thought I Was a Joke? I Hid the Heir to His Mafia Empire Chapter 08

He Thought I Was a Joke? I Hid the Heir to His Mafia Empire Chapter 08

Back inside the ward, doctors were examining 

Estelle. Medical staff looked astonished 

witnessing Luca carrying me inside. 

“Don Falcone…” 

The director hurried over nervously. 

“Arrange a compatibility test immediately.” Luca rolled up his sleeve, exposing his strong forearm. “Right this instant.” 

The director nodded excitedly. Finding matching RH negative blood remained extremely difficult, yet paternal blood offered far higher compatibility odds, capable of easing symptoms temporarily even before heart transplantation. 

A nurse brought a large syringe, dark red blood flowing steadily into the collection bag. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched. 

For seven years, I dreamed of this moment, a father saving his child. Yet reality unfolded under such painful circumstances. 

Luca appeared pale after blood donation. He 

pressed a cotton pad against his wound and walked to the hospital bed. 

Estelle remained unconscious, her face as pale as 

the pillow beneath her head, ventilator beeping rhythmically. 

Luca raised his hand, seemingly wanting to touch her cheek, then froze mid–air, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. 

“What is her name?” His voice stayed rough and husky. 

“Estelle.” I replied softly. 

“Estelle…” He repeated the name quietly, a bitter self–mocking smile forming on his lips. “Did you name her longing for me, or filled with hatred?” 

I turned my head away, avoiding his gaze. “I picked it randomly.” 

“Hmph.” He withdrew his hand coldly. “Best keep it that way.” 

Silence settled across the room. 

“What happened to the three million dollars I gave 

you?” Luca broke the quiet atmosphere. 

My back stiffened instantly. I indeed left Luca years ago, yet never for personal greed. 

“I gambled it all away.” I fabricated a casual 

excuse. 

“Lost every cent?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your lies grow increasingly transparent, Vera.” 

I stared down at peeling skin on my fingertips, offering no reply. Further deception would only bring humiliation. 

A soft knock sounded at the door. The assistant 

peeked inside holding two insulated meal boxes. 

“Don Falcone, your requested meals have arrived.” 

“Come in.” 

The aide placed the boxes on the table and withdrew. Only medical equipment beeps echoed throughout the room. 

Luca opened the containers, tempting aromas 

filling the air. The dishes came from my favorite. 

Michelin restaurant: slow–braised beef ribs soaked 

in red wine sauce, freshly baked rosemary 

potatoes, olive oil arugula salad topped with. 

parmesan cheese, and creamy seafood fish soup 

rich with clam and tomato flavors. 

My stomach rumbled loudly without restraint. 

“Come eat.” Luca picked up a fork, not glancing. 

my way. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Another loud stomach growl contradicted my 

words. 

Luca raised his eyes, mocking amusement. crossing his features. “Must I chew every bite and feed you myself?” 

The unsettling image pushed me forward to grab a bowl. Luca silently placed a rib portion onto my plate. 

“Finish everything.” His tone carried firm 

command. 

I ate mechanically. Though the flavors remained 

unchanged, the sweet memories vanished 

completely, leaving only bitter discomfort. 

After the meal, Luca walked to the window and lit 

a cigarette. Smoke swirled around his lonely 

silhouette. He did not speak another word until I 

drifted off to sleep.