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He tries to speak, but only a wet cough emerges, flecked with red. His hand reaches for me, trembling, and I catch it.

“You stupid, stupid man.” Tears stream down my face, hot and unstoppable. “Why would you—how could you?—”

But I understand now.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t weigh the cost.

He stepped in front of that bullet like it was instinct—like saving me was the only truth that ever mattered.

Because that’s who Marco really is. Not the monster I painted, not the puppet of his father—but the man who stepped between me and a bullet without hesitation.

The man who chose my life—our life—over his own.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, pressing my palms against the worst of the bleeding. My hands come away slick and red, and panic claws at my throat. “Please, Marco. Stay with me.”

His eyes are starting to glaze, that sharp green fading to something distant and unfocused. But his grip on my hand tightens with what little strength he has left.

“Always…” he whispers, the word barely audible. “Always you,dolcezza.”

“No.” I lean closer, my tears falling onto his face. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me. Not now. Not when I finally understand.”

“Understand what?” The voice comes from behind me—cold, amused, deadly.

I feel his fury before I see him. It hums in the silence, thick, suffocating. Not just for me, but for Marco.

Watching his son bleed out for love. For the woman he was raised to hate. For kneeling not to weakness, but to something far more dangerous than power: mercy.

And in Salvatore’s world, that’s the one betrayal he’ll never forgive.

I turn to see him standing over us, his gun now pointed directly at my head. His eyes glitter with satisfaction as he takesin the scene: his son bleeding out on the marble floor, the DeLuca heir sobbing over him.

“That love makes you weak?” he continues, his finger caressing the trigger. “How stupid my son was. Giving up all his power for a woman.”

Terror floods my system, but not for myself. For our baby. For Marco, who’s growing paler by the second. For the future we’ll never have if this madman pulls that trigger.

“He’s your son,” I plead, my voice cracking. “Your own blood.”

“My son chose his loyalty. And now he’ll die with his whore.”

The barrel of the gun is three feet from my face. Close enough that I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. Close enough that there’s no escape.

I close my eyes and think of my baby. Of the tiny life that deserves a chance to exist.

Of Marco, who sacrificed everything to give us that chance.

The gunshot explodes through the room.

But I’m still breathing.

I open my eyes to see Salvatore’s face twisted in shock. A red stain spreads across his chest, and the gun slips from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

He topples sideways like a felled tree, hitting the marble with a wet thud.

Behind him stands Chiara.

My sister holds a smoking pistol in both hands, her face white as bone but her stance steady.

Her arms tremble, but her aim never wavered. When she pulled the trigger, it wasn’t revenge—it was release. A final exhale of everything she’d carried for too long.