Page 22

22

Alessio

Blood stains my hands as I pace the narrow hallway. Isadora’s blood. The sight of it makes me sick, makes me want to tear the world apart with my bare hands. Her blood should never have been spilled. Not for me. Not for my revenge.

Dr. Berlusconi’s basement clinic reeks of antiseptic and desperation—the unofficial emergency room for people like me who can’t go to hospitals. People with bullet wounds to explain and enemies waiting to finish the job. Maria’s old friend has been patching up mafia soldiers for forty years. I’ve never needed him before tonight.

Now, I need him to save the only thing that matters.

The surgery door remains closed and has been for over two hours. Behind it, Isadora fights for her life because of me. Because I dragged her into my vendetta against Giancarlo. Because I couldn’t protect her.

Because I fell in love when I should have stayed a ghost.

“She’s strong,” Vittorio says from his position against the wall. “This De Angelis woman won’t die easily.”

I can’t even look at him. “She took a bullet meant for me.”

“No,” he counters. “She took a bullet because she made her choice. She knows you would have done the same for her.”

His words offer no comfort. I’ve never felt as helpless as I do now, pacing this hallway while Isadora bleeds on a surgical table.

The memory of her body going limp in my arms haunts me. The way her blood soaked through her clothes, warm against my skin. How her eyes—those fierce emerald eyes that saw through every mask I’ve worn—fluttered closed despite my desperate pleas.

“I love you,” she whispered before the darkness took her.

Words I never thought I’d hear directed at me. Words I never thought I’d want to hear. Yet they’ve branded themselves into my soul, a claim more permanent than any oath of vengeance.

“You need medical attention too,” Vittorio reminds me, nodding toward the blood crusted along my temple. “That head wound—”

“I’m fine,” I snap, though the throbbing pain suggests otherwise. The guard’s blow nearly knocked me unconscious at the warehouse, but compared to Isadora’s gunshot wound, it’s nothing.

“You’re no good to her dead,” Vittorio says quietly. “And that’s exactly what you’ll be if you don’t start thinking clearly. Both families are hunting you now.”

He’s right, and I hate him for it. The De Angelis family believes I’ve kidnapped their daughter. The Calvinos want retribution for my betrayal. I’ve managed to make enemies of everyone in one spectacular implosion.

Twenty years of patience were destroyed in days.

But I’d burn it all again for her. Without hesitation.

The surgery door finally opens. Dr. Berlusconi emerges, blood-spattered gloves removed, his ancient face etched with exhaustion. I freeze, unable to breathe, as I search his expression for a verdict.

“She’ll live,” he says simply.

My knees nearly buckle with relief. I steady myself against the wall, something tight and painful unwinding in my chest.

“The bullet missed vital organs,” he continues, wiping his hands on a towel. “She lost blood, but she’s young, healthy. Lucky.”

“When can I see her?” The question tears from my throat before I can stop it.

Dr. Berlusconi studies me with eyes that have seen too much death to be impressed by my desperation. “She’s sedated. Will be for hours. But you can sit with her.” He glances at my own injuries. “After I look at that head wound.”

I submit to his ministrations only because it gets me closer to Isadora. The stitches he puts in my scalp barely register through my focus on the door separating me from her.

“Keep her here at least two days,” he advises as he finishes. “Moving her too soon could reopen the wound.”

Two days. In the world I inhabit, two days is an eternity—enough time for both families to find us, for Luca to solidify whatever power grab he’s making, for everything to go even further to hell.

But I’d risk it all for two more days with her.

When I finally enter the small recovery room, the sight of her hits me with physical force. Isadora lies pale against white sheets, dark hair spilling across the pillow like liquid night. An IV feeds fluids into her arm, and bandages wrap her torso beneath the thin hospital gown.

She looks simultaneously fragile and indomitable—a sleeping warrior goddess. My goddess. My salvation. My destruction.

I sink into the chair beside her bed, taking her hand in mine. Her skin is cool but alive, pulse steady beneath my fingers. The relief is so intense it’s painful, a crushing weight in my chest that makes it hard to breathe.

“You stupid, beautiful, brave woman,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her knuckles. “What were you thinking, taking on Giancarlo like that?”

Her face remains serene in unconsciousness, but I can almost hear her defiant response: I was thinking I’d burn the world down to save you, same as you would for me.

Because she would. This fierce, privileged princess raised in luxury chose to fight beside me, to bleed for me, to love me despite knowing exactly what I am.

A ghost. A liar. A man built entirely from rage and vengeance.

Or at least, that’s what I was before her.

My mother’s ring weighs heavy in my pocket—the ring Maria gave me just days ago, though it feels like a lifetime has passed. I take it out, the gold catching the dim light as I turn it between my fingers.

“I was supposed to take him down,” I tell Isadora’s sleeping form. “Twenty years planning the perfect revenge. The evidence compiled, the trap set, every detail calculated.” My voice breaks with a bitter laugh. “And then you walked into that club bathroom, and nothing has gone according to plan since.”

I lean forward, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I had to watch him hurt you, principessa. Had to see your blood spill because of my vendetta. That was never part of the plan.”

Her chest rises and falls steadily, the only response to my confession. But somehow, it’s enough—just knowing she’s breathing, that her heart continues to beat, that I haven’t lost her to my father’s cruelty like I lost my mother.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear falls on our joined hands. Twenty years without tears, and now, they come freely, silently tracking down my face as exhaustion, fear and desperate love break through walls I thought impenetrable.

“I can’t lose you,” I whisper. “Not for revenge. Not for anything.”

The truth of it shakes me to my core: I would walk away from twenty years of planning, from justice for my mother, from my very identity as Stefano Calvino—if it means keeping Isadora safe. The revelation should terrify me, this willingness to abandon the purpose that has defined my existence.

Instead, it feels like freedom.

Vittorio enters hours later, finding me still holding her hand, her engagement ring from Luca pointedly missing from her finger.

“We need to move,” he says without preamble. “The De Angelis organization has men searching every medical facility in the city. Antonio is out for blood—your blood specifically.”

“Dr. Berlusconi said two days,” I counter, not taking my eyes off Isadora.

“We don’t have two days. I’ve secured a safe house in Connecticut. Remote property, defensible terrain, fully stocked. My men are preparing it now.”

I finally look at him, seeing the gravity in his expression. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Vittorio hesitates, unusual for a man who has never minced words in the twenty years I’ve known him. “Luca has made his move. With Giancarlo hospitalized, he’s claimed leadership of the Calvino organization.”

“Good for him,” I say flatly. “Let him have it.”

“That’s not all. He’s aligned with the Ricci family. They’re combining forces, eliminating rivals. Three of our men were found dead this morning.”

The news should alarm me more than it does, but with Isadora lying wounded before me, power struggles in the criminal underworld seem distant and irrelevant.

“And the evidence against Giancarlo?” I ask, thinking of the files I’ve meticulously compiled for two decades.

“Secure. But useless while he’s fighting for his life in Columbia Presbyterian with guards at his door. The moment he’s stable, Luca will have him moved to a private facility where no one can reach him.”

I absorb this, turning back to Isadora. Her color is better, a hint of pink returning to her cheeks. Mine. Against impossible odds, against warring families and blood oaths and decades of hatred, she’s chosen me. I’ve chosen her.

“Set up the extraction for tomorrow morning,” I tell Vittorio. “First light. And I want Maria moved to the Connecticut property as well. Giancarlo’s men will target her now that they know who I am.”

Vittorio nods, but hesitates at the door. “What’s the plan, Stefano? Truly. Because it looks a lot like you’re choosing the girl over the revenge.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “Maybe I am.”

“Maria won’t like that,” he says, though there’s no judgment in his tone. “She didn’t save you just for you to walk away from justice.”

“Maria saved me so I could live,” I counter, squeezing Isadora’s hand gently. “And for the first time since my mother died, I actually want to.”

After Vittorio leaves, I stretch out carefully beside Isadora on the narrow bed, my body curving protectively around hers. Her warmth against me, her scent filling my senses, is more home than any place I’ve known in twenty years of ghosting through the world.

“We survive this,” I murmur against her hair. “Together. Whatever comes next.”

In her sleep, she turns toward me, instinctively seeking my heat. Her head comes to rest against my chest, directly over my heart—the heart I’d forgotten existed until she claimed it.

And for now, in this moment, that’s enough.