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Tony returns with soup and bread, hovering anxiously until I manage to eat most of it. He takes the chair across from me again, and together we keep vigil through the night, sometimes talking softly about memories or about the future, sometimes talking about nothing at all.
As dawn approaches, my exhaustion becomes impossible to fight. My eyes grow heavy, my thoughts fuzzy with fatigue. The nurse brings a cot as promised, setting it up beside Stefano's bed, but I can't bring myself to use it. I can't bear to let go of his hand, even for a moment.
Instead, I rest my head on the edge of his mattress, his fingers still entwined with mine. The position is uncomfortable, but comfort seems like such a trivial concern right now.
"I'll be right here," I promise him, my voice slurred with exhaustion. "As long as it takes. Just come back to me."
As sleep finally claims me, I imagine I feel the slightest pressure against my palm—a twitch, a squeeze, a sign that somewhere in the darkness, he hears me. That he's fighting his way back.
That he's not ready to let go either.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Stefano
I'm swimming through darkness.Or maybe floating. Everything feels weightless, distant, as if my body has been replaced with something lighter than air.
Pain hovers at the edges of my awareness, but it can't quite reach me here in this in-between place.
Is this death? This peaceful nothingness? This absence of the constant weight of violence and responsibility?
There's a light somewhere above me. Golden and warm, beckoning.
I drift toward it, pulled by some force I don't understand. As I get closer, sounds begin to filter through—a steady electronic beeping, hushed voices, the rustle of fabric.
Familiar scents reach me next. Antiseptic. Coffee. And beneath those, something flowery and distinctly female.
Ava.
Her name anchors me, gives me a reason to fight against the comfortable void. I push toward the light with renewed purpose, toward her scent, toward the promise of seeing her again.
My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but I force them open, just a fraction at first. The world is blurry, too bright, making me want to retreat back into darkness. But then I see her.
Ava's head rests on the edge of what I now realize is a hospital bed, her dark hair spilling across the white sheets.
Her hand holds mine, warm and real, the most solid thing in this hazy reality. She appears to be sleeping, her face turned toward me, lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.
Even with bruises marring her skin, even in this sterile hospital setting, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I try to piece together how we got here. Fragments of memories flash through my mind—the warehouse, the confession about my family, Carlo Fiori's face contorted with hatred, the feeling of his skull giving way beneath my hands. Ava slashing Marco's throat with her hairpin.
Blood. So much blood.
Then her voice, desperate and breaking, pleading with me not to die.
I must have almost died. Maybe I did die, for a moment. The thought should frighten me, but all I feel is an overwhelming gratitude that I'm here now, with her hand in mine, both of us breathing.
"Ava." Her name comes out as barely a whisper, my throat raw and painful. Even that small effort leaves me exhausted.
She stirs immediately, as if some part of her has been waiting, vigilant even in sleep. Her eyes flutter open, momentarily unfocused, then widen as she realizes I'm awake.
"Stefano?" Her voice breaks on my name, disbelief and hope warring in her expression. "You're awake. You're really awake."
I try to squeeze her hand but can't tell if my muscles obey. Everything feels disconnected, distant, like I'm trying to operate my body through layers of cotton.
"Water," I manage to croak.
She's instantly in motion, reaching for a plastic cup with a straw, helping me lift my head just enough to take a sip. The water soothes my raw throat, though the movement sends pulses of pain through my skull.