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“Maria won’t like that,” he says, though there’s no judgment in his tone. “She didn’t save you just for you to walk away from justice.”

“Maria saved me so I could live,” I counter, squeezing Isadora’s hand gently. “And for the first time since my mother died, I actually want to.”

After Vittorio leaves, I stretch out carefully beside Isadora on the narrow bed, my body curving protectively around hers. Her warmth against me, her scent filling my senses, is more home than any place I’ve known in twenty years of ghosting through the world.

“We survive this,” I murmur against her hair. “Together. Whatever comes next.”

In her sleep, she turns toward me, instinctively seeking my heat. Her head comes to rest against my chest, directly over my heart—the heart I’d forgotten existed until she claimed it.

And for now, in this moment, that’s enough.

23

Isadora

Pain is my first awareness. A dull, throbbing ache in my side that pulses with each heartbeat. My second awareness is warmth—a solid presence curved against my back, a strong arm draped carefully over my waist, avoiding my bandages. Stefano. Not Alessio—not anymore. Never again. He’s just Stefano now. My Stefano.

I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings—wood-paneled walls, early morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. This isn’t the warehouse, nor the makeshift clinic where I have flashes of memory—doctors, bright lights, Stefano’s desperate voice begging me to hold on.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough with sleep, and his breath warm against my neck.

“Barely,” I whisper, my throat dry. “Where are we?”

“In Connecticut. Vittorio found us a safe house.” His fingers trace gentle patterns on my arm, as if reassuring himself I’m real. “You’ve been in and out for two days.”

Two days. The realization jolts me fully awake. Two days since Giancarlo was shot, since Luca fled, since my world exploded in gunfire and blood. Two days of nothing but darkness and fleeting awareness of Stefano’s presence keeping me anchored.

“My family—” The words catch in my throat as I try to sit up. Pain flares white-hot in my side, stealing my breath.

“Easy,” Stefano murmurs, his hand steadying me. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

When I can breathe again, I turn to face him fully. The sight nearly breaks my heart. There are dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, stubble darkening his jaw, and a raw vulnerability I’ve never seen in him before. His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with reverence.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits, voice barely audible.

“It takes more than a bullet to get rid of me.” I attempt a smile that feels weak even to me. “You should know that by now.”

His answering smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were lucky. If the bullet had been an inch to the right—”

“But it wasn’t,” I cut him off, covering his hand with mine. “I’m still here.”

“You’re still here,” he echoes, leaning forward to press his forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us. The intimacy of the gesture—more vulnerable than any of our passionate encounters—makes my heart race.

For a moment, we exist in perfect stillness, two survivors clinging to each other in the aftermath of a storm that’s far from over. I close my eyes and allow myself drift off to sleep.

Two weeks later, as we lay in bed relaxing I turn to Stefano.

“I need to contact my mother,” I say finally, pulling back enough to meet his gaze. “She needs to know the truth—about everything. About us.”

His expression darkens. “It’s too dangerous. The De Angelis family has a price on my head for supposedly kidnapping you.”

“She won’t betray us,” I insist, believing it with every fiber of my being. “My mother has always been more than she appears. She’ll listen.”

Stefano studies me, weighing risks against my certainty. “If you’re wrong—”

“Then we’re no worse off than we already are,” I finish. “Please, Stefano. I need to do this.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “One call. Untraceable. No locations mentioned.”