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Isadora

Blood splatters across my shoes before my mind can fully register the sound of the gunshot. For a moment, I stand frozen, my heart a trapped animal in my chest. Alessio crumples to the floor, a harsh, guttural sound escaping his lips as he clutches his side.

“No!” My scream tears from my throat as I run to him, falling to my knees beside his body.

His blood pools quickly, staining the marble beneath us in a vivid, horrifying red. I press my hands to the wound, desperate, helpless. His blood coats my fingers, hot and slick, refusing to be contained.

"You stole everything!" Luca’s voice is raw and broken as he raises the gun again.

Before he can fire, Vittorio moves. His gunshot is sharp, deafening in the cavernous room. Luca jerks violently, then crumples beside his mother’s corpse, his gun skittering uselessly across the floor.

Everything spins around me—the bodies, the blood, the smoke—but I can only see Alessio. His face is pale, his breaths shallow, each one a terrible, wet rasp.

"Hold on," I whisper frantically, cradling his face between my trembling hands. "Please, hold on."

I feel more than see my father moving behind me. I hear the click of his phone, the curt, commanding words he speaks. A private ambulance. No sirens. Discretion. Immediate.

I can barely process anything, but can only feel the slick warmth of Alessio’s blood seeping between my fingers and the fading strength in his body.

Men rush in, shouting orders, lifting him onto a stretcher. I refuse to let go. Someone tries to pull me back, but I shove them off, climbing into the ambulance beside him.

I clutch Alessio’s hand, sticky with blood, whispering his name over and over like a prayer. He fades in and out of consciousness, his lashes fluttering against too-pale skin.

"Stay with me," I beg, my voice cracking. "Please, Stefano, stay with me."

For a second, he blinks up at me, confusion clouding those pewter-gold eyes I love so fiercely. His lips part, but no words come. His head lolls to the side as the paramedics bark orders to one another.

The metallic tang of blood thickens the air, wrapping around me like a shroud. I press my forehead against the back of his hand, feeling the faintest pulse still beating there. I don’t care that I’m crying. I don’t care that his blood has soaked into my dress, staining me with the violence of tonight.

Somewhere, just before he slips away again, I think I hear him rasp a broken word—"Stefano"—as if the past is dragging him down into darkness. His mouth moves again, and for a fleeting, agonizing heartbeat, I think he remembers Giancarlo’s final apology. Then he goes still.

When the ambulance slams to a halt outside the hospital, the doors burst open. A team of doctors and nurses rushes toward us. They lift him onto a gurney, voices sharp and rapid.

"GSW to the back. Severe blood loss. Possible spinal trauma. BP dropping."

I try to follow them, but a nurse blocks me.

"You can't go past this point," she says firmly, steering me toward the waiting area.

"I’m not leaving him!" I shout, struggling against her grip.

"You have to let them work, miss. Please."

Before I can fight harder, Vittorio appears, pulling me into a rough embrace. His suit is streaked with blood too, his face grim.

"They’ll save him," he mutters, though his voice is strained. "They have to."

I sag against him, my legs unable to hold me upright anymore. The gurney disappears through swinging doors, taking Alessio away from me. The nurse leads me to a hard plastic chair in the waiting room. I sink into it, numb and shaking, Alessio’s blood drying on my hands.

Hours crawl by in agonizing silence. Vittorio and a few others, including my dad, stand like statues nearby, guarding me as if sheer willpower could keep Alessio alive.

I sit there, clutching the shredded remnants of his shirt against my chest, rocking slightly. My mind drifts helplessly to memories that feel both ancient and brand new—the first time Alessio touched my hand, the way his thumb had brushed against my wrist, sending shivers down my spine. The first time I saw real fear flicker behind his fearless mask, not for himself, but for me.

How many times had I doubted him? Doubted us?

Never again.

If he survives this, I will never waste another second doubting us.

The OR doors finally swing open. A doctor strides toward us, exhaustion lining his face.

"He's alive," he says without preamble. "It was close. Very close. But he's stable for now."

A sob breaks free from my chest before I can stop it. I press a trembling hand over my mouth, overwhelmed with relief.

"There’s internal damage," the doctor continues. "We'll monitor him closely. A second surgery may be necessary if bleeding continues, but for now... he made it."

Tears blur my vision as an involuntary sob escapes from my lips. Vittorio squeezes my shoulder, murmuring something I don't catch.

They allow me into the ICU once Alessio is settled. I scrub my hands roughly before stepping inside, my heart hammering against my ribs.

For two days I am allowed in briefly and the sight of him in this vulnerable state steals my breath.

He lies there, deathly pale against the white sheets, tubes and machines surrounding him like a fragile cocoon. His chest rises and falls in slow, shallow breaths. A monitor beeps steadily beside him, each sound a lifeline I cling to.

I pull a chair up to the bed and sink into it, reaching for his hand. It's warm. Still warm.

"You fought your whole life," I whisper, bringing his hand to my lips. "Fight for me now. Fight for us."

The machines beep and hum, filling the room with a mechanical lullaby. I don’t know how long I sit there, speaking to him in low, desperate murmurs about the life we haven't lived yet, about the future still waiting for us.

At some point, I feel it—a tiny movement against my palm.

I freeze, staring at his hand. Another twitch. His fingers curl weakly around mine.

"Stefano?" I breathe.

His lashes flutter. His mouth moves, dry and broken, barely forming the word.

"Angel..."

A sob cracks out of me. I lean in, tears sliding down my cheeks, pressing my forehead to his knuckles.

"Stefano?” I say with tears streaming down my face. The machines continue their steady chorus, but hope blooms fierce and unbreakable inside me for the first time in two days.

"I'm right here," I whisper through my tears. "I'm never leaving you."

I lay my head against the bed, my heart hammering out a silent vow into the dim, sterile air. He found his way back to me.

And I will fight the whole damn world to keep him.

He’s alive.

He’s still fighting.

And I will be right here, fighting with him until the end.

Alessio

I wake to the sound of machines beeping steadily, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. My body feels heavy, weighted down by pain and something deeper—something colder. My mind fights to surface, clawing through the fog of unconsciousness.

The first thing I see is her. Isadora. Sitting by my bedside, her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly around mine. Her hair falls like a dark curtain across her face, hiding the tears slipping down her cheeks.

She’s here. She didn’t leave me.

I try to speak, but my throat feels like sandpaper. A low groan escapes instead.

Her head jerks up, and when her eyes find mine, the relief that floods her beautiful face steals my breath more effectively than the bullet had.

"Stefano," she whispers, and I hear the tremor in her voice.

I squeeze her hand weakly. It's all I can manage, but it’s enough. Her body shakes with a quiet, broken sob as she presses my hand to her cheek.

"You came back to me," she breathes, her tears wetting my skin. "You fought."

I want to tell her I fought for her. That I would tear apart heaven and hell if it meant one more second by her side. But the words won’t come. So I let my eyes say it for me.

She leans closer, her forehead resting against the back of my hand, whispering promises I can’t quite make out. But I feel the love in them, the hope, the desperate, furious faith that has kept her tethered to me.

I slip back into sleep with her touch grounding me, knowing that whatever battles still lie ahead, I’m not facing them alone.