Page 52

MARCO

T he first thing I notice when I pull out of my deep, medicine-induced sleep is that the pain has finally dulled to something manageable.

For three weeks, pain has been a constant companion. Every breath I took sucked the life out of my chest, reminding me of the fact that Salvatore’s bullet came within inches of ending everything.

I no longer call him father. He was never worthy of the title. For his pride and greed, he was willing to kill an innocent, unborn baby. His own grandson. Let alone me, his only heir.

But this morning, the ache in my chest feels more like a distant memory than an active wound, and thinking of Salvatore doesn’t seem worth my time.

I flex my fingers, testing the strength that’s been slowly returning.

Better.

Much better.

I sit up and take a few deep breaths, and that’s when I smell the vanilla and jasmine. Her scent still lingers in the room.

Aria. She’s been sleeping here every night since I came home from the hospital. At the hospital, too, she never left my side.

For the past three weeks, she’s been rising before I do and sleeping after I doze off. That is, if she’s gotten any sleep at all. She’s constantly checking on me like I might disappear if she looks away too long.

Three weeks of her hovering. Three weeks of her militant care. Even the doctors and nurses were starting to fear her.

I smile, thinking of those moments. They come to me like fragments through the haze.

Memories from those first days in the hospital, her voice cutting through the haze of morphine, arguing with doctors about my treatment.

Her hands smoothing my hair back when the nightmares came.

The way she’d curl up in that uncomfortable hospital chair, one hand always holding mine, even when we slept.

She saved my life as much as the surgeons did. Kept me tethered to consciousness when it would have been easier to let go.

Now, as I manage to sit up against the headboard by myself, without help, I feel something I haven’t felt since this all began.

Hope.

I’m finally on the mend.

And it’s all because of Aria.

The bedroom door opens with a soft click, and Aria appears carrying a breakfast tray. She’s wearing one of my shirts again, the navy silk draped over her smaller frame, and her hair is twisted up in that messy knot that makes my fingers itch to pull it free.

She looks beautiful.

Tired, but beautiful.

“You’re awake early,” she says, setting the tray on the nightstand. Her eyes scan my face, assessing, always assessing. “How do you feel?”

“Good enough to shower.”

The words are out before I think them through, and I watch worry flicker across her features. She’s been helping me with everything—meals, medication, even washing my hair when the simplest movements left me breathless. The thought of me doing anything alone clearly terrifies her.

“Marco—”

“Don’t,” I interrupt gently. “Don’t look at me like I’m made of glass, dolcezza . I’m healing.”

She sets the coffee cup down with trembling fingers, and I realize how much this has cost her. Watching me bleed out on that marble floor. Sitting vigil in a hospital room, not knowing if I’d wake up. Carrying our child, and with her, the burden of everything we survived.

“I know you are,” she whispers. “I just?—”

Her voice breaks, and suddenly she’s sinking onto the edge of the bed beside me, her composure cracking like a dam under pressure.

“I was so scared, Marco.” The words tumble out in a rush, raw and honest. “In the hospital, seeing you so pale, your breathing so weak. The doctors said the bullet missed your heart by millimeters. Millimeters .”

I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. Her palm is soft and warm against mine, but I can feel the slight tremor that hasn’t left her since that night.

“That bullet was meant for me,” she continues, her voice dropping barely above a whisper. “For our baby. And you took it without hesitation. You threw yourself between us and death, and I?—”

She stops, shaking her head like she’s trying to dislodge the memory.

“I should feel victorious, shouldn’t I? The man who destroyed my family is dead. Justice served. But all I feel is guilt.”

Her free hand moves to her stomach, a protective gesture that’s become second nature. “I tried to destroy you, Marco. I hunted you, pushed you away, built a force to tear down everything you’d built. And still—still you chose me over your own life.”

“Aria—”

“I wanted revenge,” she continues, tears slipping down her cheeks. “But at what cost? I almost lost you. I almost lost us. And for what? Because I was too stubborn to see what was right in front of me?”

Her fingers tremble in mine as she reaches up with her free hand to brush the hair from my forehead. And in that small gesture, I see the weight of everything crashing down on her—all the choices that led us here, all the pain we caused each other in the name of honor, justice, and pride.

“I thought I wanted you gone,” she whispers, her voice breaking completely now. “I convinced myself that a world without Marco Bianchi would be better, cleaner. But lying in that hospital chair, watching you fight for every breath—God, Marco, a world without you feels emptier than I ever imagined.”

The confession hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my still-healing lungs. Because this is what I’ve been waiting for.

Not submission, not defeat, but understanding.

The recognition that what exists between us transcends the past.

“Please,” she begs, her forehead resting against our joined hands. “Please don’t ever get in front of a bullet again. Please don’t leave me. I can’t—I won’t survive losing you.”

The tears are falling freely now, hot against my skin, and each one feels like absolution. Like forgiveness for every lie I told.

“I was wrong,” she whispers into the silence. “I was wrong about everything.”

I feel something shift inside me, a loosening of tension. My fingers twitch, reaching for hers with what little regained strength I have.

“I knew you’d come back to me, dolcezza .”

Her breath catches. Her head snaps up, hazel eyes wide with surprise.

“Marco?” Her voice is barely audible.

I meet her gaze, letting her see the fire that burns as bright as ever. The love that nearly got me killed and would again, without hesitation, if it meant keeping her safe.

“There was never a world where I could live without you,” I tell her, my voice rough with emotion. “And apparently, there’s never a world where you can live without me, either.”

Relief crashes over her features, followed immediately by something that looks like anger. “You bastard. You beautiful, impossible bastard.”

And then she’s leaning over me, her lips finding mine in a kiss that’s everything our previous kisses weren’t—gentle, tentative, full of love. Her mouth is soft and warm, tasting faintly of the coffee as she brushes against mine, ever so delicate as though a kiss might be the death of me.

I pull back and press my nose against hers, lose myself in those beautiful eyes, filled to the brim with tears. She flutters her eyes close, and I brush against her lips again, sliding my tongue against her mouth.

She opens for me with a soft mewl that sets me on fire. Softly, I reach for her cheek, and she leans into my hand, my thumb running lines along her jaw.

She inches deeper into the bed. I feel her kick off her shoes and then, she has one hand clenching my shirt as a tether, while her other nestles behind my head.

When she runs her fingers down my scalp, a tingling thrill shoots down my spine. I groan and slide my tongue along the upper ridges of her mouth.

“Aria…”

Perhaps that was a mistake, because she pulls back instantly. Her lips are tender, her eyes glazed over, her skin flushed.

She wants me. But she stopped.

“What’s going on through that beautiful little head of yours?” I ask, caressing her cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers.

The words settle into my chest like healing balm, easing aches I didn’t know I carried.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, my hands tightening at her waist. “But right now… I need you to show me I still matter.”

She pulls back slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. “Marco, you’re not?—”

“I’m not dying,” I interrupt. “I need you, Aria. I need to feel alive again. I need to feel you. For my sanity, please.”

She studies my face for a long moment, then moves carefully onto the bed beside me, her weight barely registering as she settles against my uninjured side.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on my chest, avoiding the bandages.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

She leans up to kiss me again, and this time, there’s heat beneath the tenderness.

She teases my lower lip with her teeth. The kiss deepens gradually, building slowly like a fire catching kindling.

I reach up, tugging the pins free from her hair, and it tumbles down in soft waves, spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of silk.

My hands find the hem of her shirt—my shirt—and tug gently. She helps me ease it over her head, revealing the body I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

She’s more beautiful than ever, her breasts slightly fuller, her skin glowing with that ethereal quality that comes with pregnancy.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” I breathe, my gaze tracing every inch she’s revealed.

Color blooms across her cheeks, but she doesn’t shy away. Instead, she reaches for the drawstring of my pajama pants, her fingers working the knot with careful precision.

“Your turn,” she whispers, and I lift my hips to help her slide the fabric down my legs.

The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in Aria’s eyes as she takes me in.

I’m harder than I should be, given the beating my body’s taken—but she walks in, and it’s like my body forgets. Like she rewires the rules. Just her presence, and I’m already undone.