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“Come with me,” he says.

I glance down at the club, then back at his face.

“Is Vieri alright?” I ask. I already know the answer.

Something sinks in my chest.

Instead, he mutters something in Italian under his breath.

“Putana.” He raises the club slightly. “Move,” he says. “Before I put this through your skull.”

I pass the painting in the hallway—the one of the vineyards. The leaves look darker today.

The guards don’t appear. No one stops us. The house feels deserted.

He opens the car door, yanks it wider.

“In.”

I step inside, heart pounding but face still calm. Then a scream escapes me. Vieri’s body slumps in the back seat. Blood streaks his face, smeared down his jaw. His chest doesn’t rise.

I reach for him, my hands shaking.

But he doesn’t move.

I hold Vieri in my arms, his head cradled against my lap as the car jolts along the road. My hands are greasy with sweat, but I don’t care. I press my palm to his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall of his breathing.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady, but it trembles anyway. My tears mix with his blood. “Please.”

The car slows.

Riccardo’s hand jerks the wheel sharply. The tires screech and I look up, startled. We’ve reached the hospital.

I don’t know how far we’ve driven. The world outside feels like a different place now, as if I’ve slipped into some other reality.

The door opens, and Riccardo steps out. I push open the door, my hands shaking, my knees buckling under me as I try to get out.

I think Vieri is going to be treated. I think someone in this hospital is going to help him. Maybe this is what this is about.

But when my feet hit the pavement, Riccardo shuts the door with a sharp slam.

My chest tightens. Vieri is still inside the car.

“Get down.” His voice is steel.

“Please, what about him—” I begin, but the words catch.

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing.

“Move,” he demands. The gun is in his hand again, cold metal reflecting in the dim light. “Before I put a bullet in you.”

I stare at him. I follow him, keeping a few paces ahead, my heart thudding too loud in my chest.

Riccardo opens the door to the hospital without a word, and waves me in, hiding his gun. The antiseptic hits me immediately. The long white halls stretch out ahead, the fluorescent lights casting an unnatural glow. He walks me down the hall, watching over me with eagle eyes. The nurses and patients walk past, lost in their own world.

We get to a door labeled "private room." Riccardo looks down at me, and for the first time, his expression softens—not in sympathy, but in some twisted form of understanding.

“If you go in that door,” he says, “and you still want to go back and help him, then you’re more than welcome.”