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"I'm back," I whisper, though I don't know if he can hear me. "The baby's fine. Everything's fine. You just need to wake up now."
Machines continue their steady rhythm of beeps and hums. An IV drips clear fluid into his veins.
The oxygen mask fogs slightly with each shallow breath. But there's no response, no recognition, no change in his lifeless expression.
Time blurs as I sit there, holding his hand, willing him to open his eyes. The doctors come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medications, making notes on charts. Nurses change IV bags and monitor readings.
Through it all, I don't move. Can't move. I feel as if my presence, my touch, my stubborn refusal to leave might somehow tether him to this world. Keep him from slipping away to wherever the dying go.
"You should eat something," Tomasso says from the doorway. I hadn't even noticed him enter. "It's been hours."
I shake my head. "I'm not hungry."
"The baby needs nourishment," he counters, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Stefano would want you to take care of yourself. Of his heir."
The reminder hits its mark again. With reluctance, I accept the sandwich and water he offers, though each bite tastes like ash in my mouth.
As I eat, I study Tomasso properly for the first time since this nightmare began. His usually impeccable appearance is disheveled—tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, stubble darkening his jaw.
There's dried blood on his shirt cuffs, though I can't tell if it's his or someone else's. His eyes are bloodshot, haunted by something that looks like guilt.
"I'm sorry," I say suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "For what I said before. For calling you a coward. You were just following his orders."
Tomasso's expression shifts, surprise quickly masked by his professional façade. "You were right," he says after a moment. "I should have stayed with him. Should have found a way to protect him." His gaze moves to Stefano's unconscious form. "You're the brave one. Going in alone. Facing the Fioris. Saving him when I couldn't."
The simple admission stuns me into silence. This man—Stefano's right hand, his most trusted lieutenant—is thanking me. Me, the con artist who infiltrated their world under false pretenses. Who lied and manipulated and nearly got Stefano killed.
"I love him," I whisper, the truth of it settling deep in my bones. "I didn't mean to, didn't want to. But I do."
Tomasso nods, unsurprised. "He's loved you since you were children. Never stopped looking for you." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Even when I told him it was hopeless, that you were probably dead or had changed your identity so completely you'd never be found."
"I wish he'd found me sooner," I admit, my thumb tracing circles on Stefano's knuckles. "Before all this. Before the Fioris and the club and the lies between us."
"He found you exactly when he was meant to." Tomasso's certainty is almost comforting. "And you found your way back to him, despite everything. That's what matters now."
He excuses himself then, returning to his post outside. I'm left alone with Stefano and the weight of everything unsaid between us. Everything I need him to know.
That I love him. That I'm done running. That I want the future he's offered me—not because I have no choice, but because I choose him. Choose us.
"You have to wake up," I tell him, leaning close enough that my lips brush his ear. "You can't die, Stefano. Not now. Not when we've only just begun."
The machines continue their steady rhythm. More hours pass. And still, he doesn't stir.
A soft knock at the door draws my attention.
Tony stands awkwardly in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed from crying or exhaustion or both. He looks so young suddenly—not the surly teenager who's been making my life difficult, but the little boy I practically raised after our parents died.
"Hey," he says, voice rough. "Can I come in?"
I nod, and he shuffles into the room, taking the chair opposite me on Stefano's other side. For a long moment, he just stares at the man in the bed—at the bruises, the tubes, the evidence of violence.
"This is my fault," he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. "All of it. If I hadn't gotten caught, you wouldn't have had to—" His voice cracks. "People died because of me. Because I was stupid and reckless and?—"
"Tony, stop." I cut him off, reaching across Stefano to grasp my brother's hand. "The Fioris did this. Not you. They're the ones who used us, who lied, who tried to destroy everything."
"But if I hadn't been drunk at that bar?—"
"Then they would have found another way to get to us," I say firmly. "They always meant to use us against each other. To use me against Stefano. We were just pieces in their game."