The gunshot rang through the room, twice.
Amelia's eyes squeezed shut, her body bracing for the impact, waiting for the bullets to tear through her….
But nothing came.
No pain. No fire. Nothing.
Her heart slammed wildly against her ribs as she sucked in a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
They went wide.
Standing a few feet away was Kieran.
The hitman staggered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as blood poured from his mouth. He collapsed in a heap, the phone slipping from his hand and clattering against the floor. Kieran watched him with bored, almost detached eyes before calmly sliding the gun into his slacks.
Hospital staff burst into the room moments later, skidding to a halt at the sight of the blood-soaked scene.
Kieran stepped forward just as the hitman twitched, trying to lift his head. He bent down, plucked the fallen phone from the floor, and brought it to his ear.
He caught the voice mid-breath.
"Your turn."
Kieran's lips twitched, but he said nothing at first. He listened, eyes hooded as nurses rushed around him, shouting, scrambling, trying desperately to stop what he already knew was inevitable. The man was dying. He could see it in the glassy stare, the way life was draining from him second by second.
Then Keenan's voice came again, sharp with irritation.
"What's going on there? Haven't you left the hospital yet?"
Kieran almost smiled.
"Well," he drawled, voice smooth, amused, "he has left the hospital."
A pause. He could practically hear Keenan stiffen.
"You should really invest in better hitmen," Kieran continued lazily. "This one, unfortunately, has left the world too."
Silence swallowed the line, thick, stunned, furious.
Then Bishop exploded.
"Who the fuck is this?" he roared, the speaker crackling with rage. "Where's my man?"
Kieran's lips curved into a slow, gleeful grin—too sharp, too pleased. A soft laugh slipped from him, genuine and delighted.
"Dead," he said lightly. "Lung shot. Bled out fast. Messy, but efficient."
Bishop's breathing turned ragged. "Knight."
"There it is," Kieran murmured, eyes flicking to the hitman's lifeless stare fixed on the ceiling. "Took you long enough, Keenan. I was starting to think your standards had dropped even lower."
"You son of a…."
Kieran laughed again, louder this time, dark and unhinged, echoing off the sterile white walls.
"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this," he said pleasantly. "You declared war on the wrong family, old friend. Tick-tock."
He ended the call with a lazy press of his thumb and slipped the phone into his pocket.
By then, chaos had erupted.
Nurses and doctors flooded the room, voices overlapping.
"Code Blue! Get the crash cart!"
"Gunshot wound, pressure's dropping!"
"Security! Lock down the floor!"
One nurse knelt beside the hitman, pressing gauze against the bubbling wound, hands trembling as blood soaked through the stolen scrubs and spread across the floor.
Another spun toward Amelia, panic sharp in her voice. "Ma'am, are you hurt? Did he shoot you?"
Amelia sat frozen on the bed, IV tugging at her arm, eyes glassy with shock. Then her gaze locked on Kieran—standing calm in the center of it all, blood flecking his cuffs like abstract art.
A sob ripped free.
She scrambled off the bed, ignoring protests, bare feet slapping against the cold floor as she threw herself into him. Her arms locked around his waist, face buried in his chest, clinging like she might fall apart if she let go.
"You saved me," she sobbed. "You saved me… thank you—oh God, thank you…"
Kieran didn't hug her back.
He simply allowed it. One hand rested lightly on her shoulder, not comforting, just acknowledging. His expression remained cool, distant, eyes scanning the room out of instinct, cataloging exits and threats.
The hitman's body was wheeled out moments later.
"No pulse."
"Time of death."
Security arrived, then police, uniforms first, then detectives in plain clothes.
The lead detective, a grizzled man in his fifties named Harlan, paused when he saw Kieran.
"Mr. Blackwood," he said carefully. Everyone knew the name. Knew the rumors. Knew better than to push.
"Detective."
Harlan glanced at the blood trail, then at Amelia trembling against Kieran's side.
"Witness says a man in scrubs entered the room, pulled a weapon. You intervened. Self-defense?"
"And defense of a patient under my protection," Kieran replied smoothly. "He was sent to kill her. I neutralized the threat."
Harlan nodded slowly. "We'll need your statement. And the weapon."
Kieran removed the Glock and handed it over. "Registered. Permit on file."
Harlan bagged it without comment. He already knew the cameras would tell the story.
Amelia's shaky answers matched Kieran's version perfectly.
Twenty minutes later, Harlan closed his notebook.
"We'll rule it justified. Security footage will confirm." He hesitated, then added quietly, "Get her out of here. Fast."
Kieran inclined his head. "Already planned."
The police left without fanfare. No one in cuffs. No prolonged questioning. Just quiet nods as they filed out.
The head neonatologist, Dr. Patel, the one overseeing Amelia's premature son, arrived soon after, his expression grim. His gaze flicked briefly to the now-clean floor, where techs were still mopping away the last traces of blood.
"Mr. Blackwood," he said carefully. "We can't keep her or the infant here. Not safely."
Kieran nodded once. "The hospital will be compensated. Generously."
Dr. Patel didn't argue. "About the baby, he's stable on the ventilator. Gaining weight, slowly. His lungs are the primary concern. Under normal circumstances, we'd keep him until at least thirty-six weeks corrected, but…"
"But circumstances have changed," Kieran finished calmly.
Dr. Patel exhaled. "This isn't standard, but in extreme cases, with private funding, we can arrange a home neonatal setup. A transport incubator, portable ventilator, continuous monitoring, twenty-four-hour nursing rotation. We've done it for high-profile families before. It's risky, but possible, provided the home is properly prepared and staffed."
Amelia, still gripping Kieran's arm like a lifeline, looked up sharply. "So… he can come home with us?" Her voice wavered. "He's not safe here…"
Kieran turned to her, his voice steady, absolute. "He's coming home with us. Today."
Dr. Patel blinked.
"My estate has a full medical wing," Kieran continued. "Donald's treatment proved that. We'll convert a room into a private NICU. The best equipment available. Neonatal nurses and physicians on site, around the clock. He'll be safer there than anywhere else."
Dr. Patel nodded slowly. "I can personally oversee the transfer. If you're prepared to cover the costs and assume liability…"
"Done," Kieran said.
Amelia's eyes filled again, but this time with fragile, overwhelming relief. "You'd do all that… for us?"
Kieran's gaze flicked to her, then away. "My wife forgave you. That makes you family." His voice lowered. "And no one touches my family."
He was already pulling out his phone.
"Damon," he said as the line connected. "Prepare the east wing. Full neonatal suite. Immediately."
As plans moved into motion, fast, precise, Kieran looked down at Amelia one last time.
"Pack what you need," he told her. "You're coming with me."
But in his eyes, beneath the calm certainty, the gleeful darkness still lingered.
Bishop had just made his last mistake.