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Instead of laughing, more tears spill down her face. She shakes her head, her fingers trembling as they brush against my jawline.
"I'm so sorry," she says, her voice breaking. "This is all my fault. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have been shot."
"Hey," I say, reaching for her hand despite the pain that shoots through my chest. "I chose this, remember? No one forced me to go after Ivan."
"But if I hadn't left?—"
"You were trying to save your sister," I interrupt. "And that friend of yours. I understand why you did it."
She looks down at our joined hands. "I didn't think about what would happen to you. I was so angry and I just wanted to fix everything, and now you're?—"
"Alive," I finish for her. "I'm alive, Evelyn. And so are you. And Jessica. And even your friend with nine fingers."
A small, reluctant laugh escapes her, though it sounds more like a sob. She wipes at her tears with her free hand.
"I've never had anyone risk their life for me before," she admits quietly.
I squeeze her hand, ignoring the fire in my chest. "Get used to it. I'm not going anywhere."
Her lips meet mine again, this time with more urgency. The pain in my chest feels distant compared to the fire her touch ignites. When she pulls away her cheeks are flushed, and those eyes—those fucking eyes that have haunted me for months—are dark with something that has nothing to do with tears.
"Jesus, I want to fuck you so badly right now," I growl, my voice still rough from disuse.
Evelyn's eyes widen, and then she bursts into laughter—real laughter that makes her throw her head back. It's the first time I've heard that sound from her without restraint.
"You're unbelievable," she says, shaking her head. "You've been shot. You almost died. And that's already what you're thinking about?"
I manage a weak smirk despite the pain. "What can I say? Near-death experiences make a man appreciate life's pleasures."
She laughs again and her fingers tighten around mine. "The doctor said you need to rest for at least a week before any... strenuous activity."
"A week?" I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "That's fucking torture."
Her smile fades slightly as she studies my face. "I thought I'd lost you," she whispers, serious again. "When you fell... there was so much blood."
I lift my hand, ignoring the pull of the IV, and brush a strand of hair from her face. "Takes more than a Russian with a gun to get rid of me."
The last two days blur together in my mind—a nightmare of antiseptic aromas, harsh fluorescent lights and the constant beeping of monitors. I barely left Noah's side, dozing in uncomfortable chairs and subsisting on vending machine snacks and terrible coffee.
The doctors worked on him for nearly seven hours. Seven hours of me pacing the waiting room, watching Matteo make hushed phone calls in the corner, and Alessio standing guard at the door like a sentinel. Seven hours of wondering if Noah would live or die because of me.
"You need to eat something," Matteo had said, pushing a sandwich toward me around hour five.
I just shook my head no, my stomach too knotted to accept food.
When the surgeon finally emerged, his scrubs spattered with blood—Noah's blood—I nearly collapsed. "He's stable," was all I needed to hear before the tears came.
The most surreal part was watching Damiano handle the aftermath. He arrived at the clinic like a force of nature, speaking in low, commanding tones to administrators. Somehow, despite a man being shot near the heart, despite another man being killed, no police were called.
"How is this possible?" I'd whispered to Matteo as Damiano spoke with the hospital director.
"Money. Influence. Fear." Matteo shrugged as if it were obvious. "The Ferettis own half this city, including several board members of this clinic."
I watched as paperwork disappeared, as security footage was erased, as the bullet removed from Noah's chest vanished into Enzo's pocket rather than police evidence.
Now I watch as Noah drifts back to sleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The tension in his face relaxes, making him look younger, almost vulnerable. It's strange to see him this way after knowing his dangerous side.
"This is normal," the doctor says, noticing my concerned expression. "The first time a patient wakes after this kind of trauma they often don't stay conscious long. His body is healing."