Page 143 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

Valentina’s breathing is steady now, but shallow, as though each inhale must first ask permission.

Her skin, no longer corpse-pale, carries a sickly sheen of sweat.

A flush creeps back into her cheeks unevenly, as if the body is negotiating with the poison rather than defeating it outright.

She leans against the headboard of the guest suite, half-shrouded in shadow, her eyes open but unfocused, the pupils no longer pinpricked but still swimming in too much light.

Luca’s coat lies across her lap, heavy with damp and ash—he must’ve wrapped her in it on instinct, or perhaps he couldn't bear the sight of her without doing something, anything.

Her hands twitch in small, ghostlike spasms.

The physician said they might, as the last of the toxins leech out of her system.

There is no pain left, he claimed.

Only residue.

Luca fares worse.

His body is awake in the way a machine reboots after a power cut—systems online, but lagging behind the command.

He follows motion with glassy eyes, wincing slightly when the curtains shift or a voice sharpens.

There’s no speech.

Only his strength remains—earlier, when I lifted him from the hallway carpet, his fingers clamped around my wrist with a desperation that bruised.

But no words followed.

Not then.

Not since.

His silence echoes louder than screams would.

The toxin was tailored to mimic natural collapse, they said.

Precise in its cruelty.

The antidote worked—but barely.

A second dose would have ended both of them.

I close the door to their room, the wood catching softly on the latch.

My hand stays on the handle longer than necessary.

At the end of the hall, the guards part to reveal the man who delivered the wine.

He does not hang his head or plead.

He stands straight, arms bound, shoulders squared like he’s waiting for a sentence already passed.

His face is too still, the expression absent of fear or remorse.

Not numb.

Resolved.