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I brought her into this mess. I kept her when I should have let her go. I put her in danger because I was selfish, because I wanted her, because for once in my miserable life, I thought I could have something good.

And look what it got her.

I stroke her hair, careful to avoid the gash on her temple. "I'm sorry," I whisper, though she can't hear me. "I'm so fucking sorry."

The weight of her unconscious body against mine feels like judgment. Like punishment.

I can't do this to her anymore. I can't keep putting her in danger just because I'm too weak to let her go. She deserves better than this life — better than me.

When she wakes up, when she's safe and healed, I'll have to do what I should have done from the beginning.

I'll have to let her go.

FORTY-SIX

Olivia

Brightness stabs my eyes as I blink them open. The antiseptic smell hits me first, then the steady beep of machines. A hospital room materializes around me. Sterile white walls, bland curtains, and an IV dripping fluid into my arm.

Sam sits slumped in a chair beside my bed, his head resting on his folded arms near my hand. His dark hair is disheveled, clothes wrinkled like he's been here for days. When I shift slightly, his head snaps up, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with shadows.

"Olivia." My name comes out like a prayer from his lips. "Thank God."

I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper. Sam quickly reaches for a cup of water, gently bringing the straw to my lips. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat.

"What happened?" I manage to rasp.

"You're okay." His voice cracks. "You had a cut on your shoulder, two broken ribs, and a concussion." Sam's face crumples, the facade of the untouchable mob boss completelygone. "I'm so sorry, Olivia. This is all my fault. I should have protected you better. I should have?—"

"It's okay," I whisper.

The events of the night come back to me in a twisted montage. Visions of Axel slicing Roman's throat, then everything going black before I woke up in that shack. When I remember Axel's hands on me, I feel nauseous, my stomach convulsing.

Sam's hand rubs my back. "It's okay, baby."

"I shot him," I whisper, recalling the weight of the gun in my hands and how I didn't even flinch as I pulled the trigger. Again. And again. His body jerked with each impact. The light leaving his eyes.

I killed someone.

The memory loops endlessly — the screw cutting into my palm as I worked it free, the desperate struggle, the moment I knew it was either him or me. The sound of the gunshots still rings in my ears, so loud they seemed to shake the room.

I can still feel the warm splash of his blood on my skin.

Sam squeezes my hand, pulling me back to the present. "You're safe now," he murmurs.

I nod, but inside, I'm still in that room, watching Axel fall to the floor, knowing I put him there.

I'm dischargedfrom the hospital three days later. My body aches in places I didn't know could hurt, but the doctors say I'm healing well. No permanent damage. Just scars that will fade with time.

Sam hasn't left my side since I woke up. He's been attentive, gentle, making sure I have everything I need. But there's something distant in his eyes, like he's already gone.

He helps me into his SUV, handling me like I'm made of glass. The ride is quiet, tension filling the space between us. When we turn onto my street instead of heading toward his mansion, my heart sinks.

"Why are we here?" I ask as he parks in front of my apartment above the bar.

Sam turns off the engine but doesn't look at me. "This is where you live."

He comes around to help me out, supporting me as we climb the stairs. My legs feel like lead, and not just from the injuries. Each step feels like walking toward something I don't want to face.