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My prayers flow from me, comforting like the softest touch, like a balm on a wound.

“Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori...”

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners...

I tremble as my body reacts to the pain again and the blood floods my throat but the prayer presses on.

“Oh, Madre, proteggi Nonna. Tienila nel tuo abbraccio…”

Oh, Mother, protect Nonna. Hold her in your embrace...

I picture Nonna in my mind—her kind eyes, her gentle smile.Tears sting my eyes.

“Proteggi Bea, la mia amica, la mia sorella... Che la tua luce li guidi, che la tua forza li difenda.”

Protect Bea, my friend, my sister... May your light guide them, may your strength defend them.

“Dio mio, datemi forza. Non posso più combattere da sola…”

My God, give me strength. I can no longer fight alone...

My voice falters and my body shudders with pain. I feel the darkness pressing in on me.

“Madonna mia, perdonami... darmi la forza per affrontare tutto questo…”

My Madonna, forgive me... give me the strength to face all of this...

The world around me feels distant, as though I’m sinking deeper and deeper into the void. My breath is shallow, ragged, and I feel the last of my strength leaving me.

“Prega per noi, ora e nell’ora della nostra morte...Amen.”

Pray for us, now and at the hour of our death... Amen.

And then, I fall into oblivion.

Chapter Eleven – Vieri

Bugatti hisses as the doctor presses a gauze pad against his arm, soaking up the blood seeping from fresh teeth marks. His face twists in pain, his other hand gripping the edge of my desk like he’s debating whether to strangle someone.

"Piccola bastarda," he grits out, switching to Italian as his temper flares. "That girl—she's rabid. Like a fucking wildcat. Who bites someone like this?"

The doctor murmurs something about holding still, dabbing disinfectant onto the wound. Bugatti jerks his arm away with a sharp glare but lets the doctor finish.

I barely hear them.

My mind is elsewhere, replaying the last few minutes.

I never expected a violent resistance. At most, I thought of a desperate prayer thrown into the void. But I hadn’t expected this.

She was all softness and trembling hands. And yet—when she lashed out, she wasn’t prey.

She was feral.

The ache in my scalp where she’d torn at my hair is a dull, pulsing reminder. The girl fought with everything she had. And Bugatti has the mark to prove it.

I exhale slowly, rubbing my jaw.

"A wolf in sheep’s clothing."