68. BEG

Murad sat on the porch, a glass of water in his hand, though he barely tasted it as it slid down his throat. The quiet of the night seemed deafening after the day’s chaos. He had sent Haroon back with Sofia, reassuring the boy with a calmness he didn’t feel. His mind was elsewhere—back in that sterile hospital room, the doctor’s words echoing in his head.

“She’s out of danger now.”

He had heard those words, but they felt hollow. Out of danger didn’t mean she was safe, and it didn’t erase the image of her lying motionless, a bandage wrapped tightly around her head. The thought of it made his heart clench painfully.

When Murad finally returned to the room, he moved quietly, sitting on the small stool beside her bed. His eyes fell on her pale face, framed by tangled hair, her skin too fragile under the harsh hospital lights. Dark circles rimmed his own eyes, evidence of sleepless nights, worry etched deep into his features. He had always been in control, always been the one to hold things together. But now, sitting here, he felt powerless. His gaze drifted to the bandage around her head, stark white against her skin, and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

The sight of it—of her so still—tore him apart inside. She was always full of life, quick-witted, and strong, but here, in this fragile state, she seemed so small. His mind replayed everything—the moment she was hurt, the panic that gripped him, the fear that he might lose her. That fear still lingered, gnawing at him like a constant weight on his chest.

Murad leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as his hands covered his face. He wasn’t one to beg, wasn’t one to pray or ask for miracles. He had never allowed himself to rely on anything outside of his control. But now… now things were different.

“I never beg,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible in the quiet room.

His eyes fell on her again, her body so still, except for the faint rise and fall of her chest. The sound of her breathing, though slow and steady, was the only thing keeping him grounded. Without thinking, his hand reached out, trembling slightly, and he gently brushed a lock of hair from her face, careful not to disturb her.

“But please,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion, “please wake up. I can’t function without you.”

His throat tightened, and he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back the flood of feelings he’d been trying to suppress. Fear, guilt, frustration—all of it churned inside him. He hated seeing her like this. He hated that he hadn’t been able to protect her.

His eyes lingered on the bandage again, and his chest tightened. Every breath she took felt like a small victory, but every moment she remained unconscious felt like a loss. He had always been able to handle anything thrown his way—problems, challenges, threats—but this? This was different. He didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know how to make it better.

“Why did it have to be you?” he whispered, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears. His feelings for her had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. He admired her strength, her kindness, her fire. But now, seeing her like this, he realized just how deeply those feelings ran.

She wasn’t just someone he cared about. She was everything.

Murad sat there, his hand still lightly touching her, his mind racing. He could feel the overwhelming need to keep her safe, to never let anything hurt her again. But right now, he couldn’t do anything but wait. Wait and hope.

His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, burned as he gazed at her. “You can’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “I need you.”

For the first time in a long time, Murad felt truly helpless. The man who never begged, who never showed weakness, was reduced to this—a silent plea for the woman lying before him to open her eyes.

Murad sat silently, his thoughts consumed by the steady rise and fall of her chest. Every breath she took was a lifeline, fragile yet reassuring. His fingers lightly brushed against her hand, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, threatening to pull him under. He wasn’t aware of how long he had been sitting there when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He ignored it at first, unwilling to leave her side. But the vibration persisted. With a deep, weary sigh, he finally fished it out and glanced at the screen. It was a message from his uncle, Hashim.

Come outside. Now.

Murad’s brow furrowed, irritation flickering in his tired eyes. His uncle’s timing was never considerate, and this was no exception. He didn’t want to leave her—not now, not when she needed him. But Murad knew better than to ignore a summons from Uncle Hashim. He stood reluctantly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he slipped out of the room.

The hallway outside the hospital room was quiet, the low hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. Murad stepped outside, and immediately spotted his uncle standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, a hard, unyielding expression on his face. Uncle Hashim’s eyes locked onto him with an intensity that sent a clear message—this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

Murad barely had time to take a breath before his uncle’s sharp voice cut through the silence.

“What the hell are you doing in there?” Hashim’s voice was low but filled with frustration, his eyes narrowing as he took a step toward his nephew. “I’ve been watching you. Sitting by her side, looking like a lost little boy. Do you realize how weak you look?”

Murad’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. His uncle’s words stung, though he wouldn’t admit it.

Hashim shook his head in disbelief, his voice rising. “You’re part of this world now—the mafia world. There’s no room for weakness, no space for emotions to cloud your judgment. You sitting there, begging for her to wake up, it’s pathetic. You think that’s how we survive? By clinging to feelings? No. We survive by being strong, by being ruthless.”

Murad’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his body tense. He knew his uncle was right—weakness had no place in the mafia, not if you wanted to stay alive. But seeing her like that, vulnerable and hurt, had cracked something inside him, something he couldn’t just bury.

“I’m not weak,” Murad finally said, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

Hashim took another step closer, his face inches from Murad’s. “You sure as hell look weak. And in this world, the moment you show weakness, they’ll eat you alive. You think I built this empire by caring about anyone? By letting my feelings get in the way?” His uncle’s eyes bore into him, filled with cold certainty. “No. I didn’t. You can’t afford to let anyone be your weakness, Murad. Not her, not anyone.”

Murad’s chest tightened, the weight of his uncle’s words sinking in. He hated how right Hashim was, hated that he couldn’t argue against it. He had seen what happened to those who let their guard down, who let their emotions control them. In the mafia, mercy was a weakness, and weakness was a death sentence.

But as Murad stood there, listening to his uncle’s harsh words, he couldn’t shake the image of her lying in that hospital bed. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the fragile bandage wrapped around her head—it made something inside him snap. She wasn’t just a distraction or a liability. She was his anchor, his reason to fight.

“She’s not my weakness,” Murad said quietly, his voice steely. “She’s my reason.”

Hashim raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a cynical smirk. “Is that what you think? You think caring about someone makes you strong? It’ll make you vulnerable, Murad. You’ll lose focus, make mistakes. And in our world, mistakes get you killed.”

Murad’s eyes darkened, and he met his uncle’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “I know what I’m doing. I won’t let anything or anyone make me weak.”

Hashim stared at him for a long moment, his expression hard to read. Then, without another word, he turned and started to walk away, but not before throwing one last parting remark over his shoulder. “You better not. Because if you do, it’ll be the end of you—and her.”

Murad watched as his uncle disappeared down the hallway, his mind churning with conflicting emotions. He knew his uncle wasn’t wrong, but at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that protecting her—being there for her—wasn’t a weakness. It was the one thing that gave him strength.

With a deep breath, Murad turned and walked back to the hospital room, his resolve hardening. He would protect her at any cost. But he would do it his way—without letting his uncle, or the mafia world, strip away the one thing that made him feel alive.