Page 71

Isadora

Blood splatters across my shoes before my mind can fully register the sound of the gunshot. For a moment, I stand frozen, my heart a trapped animal in my chest. Alessio crumples to the floor, a harsh, guttural sound escaping his lips as he clutches his side.

“No!” My scream tears from my throat as I run to him, falling to my knees beside his body.

His blood pools quickly, staining the marble beneath us in a vivid, horrifying red. I press my hands to the wound, desperate, helpless. His blood coats my fingers, hot and slick, refusing to be contained.

"You stole everything!" Luca’s voice is raw and broken as he raises the gun again.

Before he can fire, Vittorio moves. His gunshot is sharp, deafening in the cavernous room. Luca jerks violently, then crumples beside his mother’s corpse, his gun skittering uselessly across the floor.

Everything spins around me—the bodies, the blood, the smoke—but I can only see Alessio. His face is pale, his breaths shallow, each one a terrible, wet rasp.

"Hold on," I whisper frantically, cradling his face between my trembling hands. "Please, hold on."

I feel more than see my father moving behind me. I hear the click of his phone, the curt, commanding words he speaks. A private ambulance. No sirens. Discretion. Immediate.

I can barely process anything, but can only feel the slick warmth of Alessio’s blood seeping between my fingers and the fading strength in his body.

Men rush in, shouting orders, lifting him onto a stretcher. I refuse to let go. Someone tries to pull me back, but I shove them off, climbing into the ambulance beside him.

I clutch Alessio’s hand, sticky with blood, whispering his name over and over like a prayer. He fades in and out of consciousness, his lashes fluttering against too-pale skin.

"Stay with me," I beg, my voice cracking. "Please, Stefano, stay with me."

For a second, he blinks up at me, confusion clouding those pewter-gold eyes I love so fiercely. His lips part, but no words come. His head lolls to the side as the paramedics bark orders to one another.

The metallic tang of blood thickens the air, wrapping around me like a shroud. I press my forehead against the back of his hand, feeling the faintest pulse still beating there. I don’t care that I’m crying. I don’t care that his blood has soaked into my dress, staining me with the violence of tonight.

Somewhere, just before he slips away again, I think I hear him rasp a broken word—"Stefano"—as if the past is dragging him down into darkness. His mouth moves again, and for a fleeting, agonizing heartbeat, I think he remembers Giancarlo’s final apology. Then he goes still.

When the ambulance slams to a halt outside the hospital, the doors burst open. A team of doctors and nurses rushes toward us. They lift him onto a gurney, voices sharp and rapid.

"GSW to the back. Severe blood loss. Possible spinal trauma. BP dropping."

I try to follow them, but a nurse blocks me.

"You can't go past this point," she says firmly, steering me toward the waiting area.

"I’m not leaving him!" I shout, struggling against her grip.

"You have to let them work, miss. Please."

Before I can fight harder, Vittorio appears, pulling me into a rough embrace. His suit is streaked with blood too, his face grim.

"They’ll save him," he mutters, though his voice is strained. "They have to."

I sag against him, my legs unable to hold me upright anymore. The gurney disappears through swinging doors, taking Alessio away from me. The nurse leads me to a hard plastic chair in the waiting room. I sink into it, numb and shaking, Alessio’s blood drying on my hands.

Hours crawl by in agonizing silence. Vittorio and a few others, including my dad, stand like statues nearby, guarding me as if sheer willpower could keep Alessio alive.

I sit there, clutching the shredded remnants of his shirt against my chest, rocking slightly. My mind drifts helplessly to memories that feel both ancient and brand new—the first time Alessio touched my hand, the way his thumb had brushed against my wrist, sending shivers down my spine. The first time I saw real fear flicker behind his fearless mask, not for himself, but for me.

How many times had I doubted him? Doubted us?

Never again.

If he survives this, I will never waste another second doubting us.