Page 63

Alessio

Blood stains my hands as I pace the narrow hallway. Isadora’s blood. The sight of it makes me sick, makes me want to tear the world apart with my bare hands. Her blood should never have been spilled. Not for me. Not for my revenge.

Dr. Berlusconi’s basement clinic reeks of antiseptic and desperation—the unofficial emergency room for people like me who can’t go to hospitals. People with bullet wounds to explain and enemies waiting to finish the job. Maria’s old friend has been patching up mafia soldiers for forty years. I’ve never needed him before tonight.

Now, I need him to save the only thing that matters.

The surgery door remains closed and has been for over two hours. Behind it, Isadora fights for her life because of me. Because I dragged her into my vendetta against Giancarlo. Because I couldn’t protect her.

Because I fell in love when I should have stayed a ghost.

“She’s strong,” Vittorio says from his position against the wall. “This De Angelis woman won’t die easily.”

I can’t even look at him. “She took a bullet meant for me.”

“No,” he counters. “She took a bullet because she made her choice. She knows you would have done the same for her.”

His words offer no comfort. I’ve never felt as helpless as I do now, pacing this hallway while Isadora bleeds on a surgical table.

The memory of her body going limp in my arms haunts me. The way her blood soaked through her clothes, warm against my skin. How her eyes—those fierce emerald eyes that saw through every mask I’ve worn—fluttered closed despite my desperate pleas.

“I love you,” she whispered before the darkness took her.

Words I never thought I’d hear directed at me. Words I never thought I’d want to hear. Yet they’ve branded themselves into my soul, a claim more permanent than any oath of vengeance.

“You need medical attention too,” Vittorio reminds me, nodding toward the blood crusted along my temple. “That head wound—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, though the throbbing pain suggests otherwise. The guard’s blow nearly knocked me unconscious at the warehouse, but compared to Isadora’s gunshot wound, it’s nothing.

“You’re no good to her dead,” Vittorio says quietly. “And that’s exactly what you’ll be if you don’t start thinking clearly. Both families are hunting you now.”

He’s right, and I hate him for it. The De Angelis family believes I’ve kidnapped their daughter. The Calviños want retribution for my betrayal. I’ve managed to make enemies of everyone in one spectacular implosion.

Twenty years of patience were destroyed in days.

But I’d burn it all again for her. Without hesitation.

The surgery door finally opens. Dr. Berlusconi emerges, blood-spattered gloves removed, his ancient face etched with exhaustion. I freeze, unable to breathe, as I search his expression for a verdict.

“She’ll live,” he says simply.

My knees nearly buckle with relief. I steady myself against the wall, something tight and painful unwinding in my chest.

“The bullet missed vital organs,” he continues, wiping his hands on a towel. “She lost blood, but she’s young, healthy. Lucky.”

“When can I see her?” The question tears from my throat before I can stop it.

Dr. Berlusconi studies me with eyes that have seen too much death to be impressed by my desperation. “She’s sedated. Will be for hours. But you can sit with her.” He glances at my own injuries. “After I look at that head wound.”

I submit to his ministrations only because it gets me closer to Isadora. The stitches he puts in my scalp barely register through my focus on the door separating me from her.

“Keep her here at least two days,” he advises as he finishes. “Moving her too soon could reopen the wound.”

Two days. In the world I inhabit, two days is an eternity—enough time for both families to find us, for Luca to solidify whatever power grab he’s making, for everything to go even further to hell.

But I’d risk it all for two more days with her.

When I finally enter the small recovery room, the sight of her hits me with physical force. Isadora lies pale against white sheets, dark hair spilling across the pillow like liquid night. An IV feeds fluids into her arm, and bandages wrap her torso beneath the thin hospital gown.