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Chapter Thirty

Dante

I wake to the dull throb of agony in my shoulder.

A fresh bullet wound pulses with every heartbeat, a constant reminder of Nico's betrayal and how close death came to claiming me in that cathedral.

Looking around, I can see a familiar room… the private chamber in the Ravelli mansion. It has been hastily converted to serve as a medical room. Surgical instruments gleam on a nearby tray, blood-stained gauze discarded in a basin.

The doctor—an elderly man who's served the Ravelli family through decades of violence—tightens the final stitch in my shoulder.

"Hold still, Mr. Ravelli," he murmurs, snipping the surgical thread. "Almost finished."

But I barely register his words. My attention fixates solely on Francesca, standing in the doorway, mobile phone pressed toher ear as she coordinates the security lockdown of the entire estate.

My queen.

Hours ago, she stood between warring factions in a bullet-riddled cathedral, her voice cutting through chaos and bloodshed to impose order through sheer force of will. The woman who entered my life as merchandise, as property to be claimed and controlled, transformed before my eyes into something transcendent.

I should be furious.

My revenge… the killing of Luca that I've planned for years, that I've built my entire empire toward… abandoned in a moment of what should have been triumph.

Yet strangely, anger refuses to surface.

Instead, I find myself replaying that moment when bullets first rang out. Nico's betrayal. The choice I made without conscious thought, lunging not away from my enemies but toward them. Toward Luca.

What possessed me to shield the brother I've spent years plotting to destroy?

"You're fortunate again, Mr. Ravelli," the doctor says, applying the final bandage. "With proper rest, you should regain full mobility. But I would recommend you stop being shot. Even a man like you can only sustain such luck for so long."

I nod absently, eyes never leaving Francesca as she finishes her call and approaches the bed.

"Marco has secured the perimeter," she reports, her eyes assessing my bandaged shoulder with concern. "Three teams sweeping for any remaining threats, but Nico seems to have gone dark."

"Of course he has," I grunt, testing my arm's movement and wincing at the flare of pain. "The coward never had the stomach for real violence."

The doctor packs his instruments, clearing his throat. "The medication will make you drowsy, Mr. Ravelli. I recommend at least forty-eight hours of complete rest."

I dismiss him with a wave, and he bows slightly before retreating, leaving Francesca and me alone in the room that smells of blood and iodine.

She moves to sit beside me on the bed, her fingers gentle as they check the bandage.

"You're angry at me," she states, misreading my silence.

I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Actually… no."

Her eyebrows lift, a small crease forming between them. "I stepped between you and your vengeance. I stopped you from killing Luca and getting what you wanted."

"You did." My thumb traces circles against her palm. "But I already made that choice before you did."

"When you protected him," she says softly. "When you chose to save him rather than let Nico's men kill him."

I nod, the realization settling over me like a shroud. "Something changed in that moment, Francesca. Seeing Bianca in labor, Luca right there..." I pause, struggling to articulate the shift that occurred beneath sacred stone. "I think I've spilled enough blood in the name of revenge."

A knock at the door interrupts us. Marco enters, his expression carefully neutral.

"Sir, madam. The baby has arrived."