Page 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ava

I can't breathe. Can't think. Can barely move.

Stefano lies motionless on the concrete floor, blood pooling beneath him in an ever-widening circle. So much blood. Too much blood.

His face is deathly pale beneath the bruises and cuts, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

"Stefano," I whisper, my voice breaking. My hands hover over him, afraid to touch, afraid to make things worse. "Please. Stay with me."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Just lies there, broken and still, while chaos erupts around us.

The warehouse door splinters as the Fiori men continue their assault. We have minutes, maybe seconds, before they break through. I need to do something. Need to get help. Need to save him.

My phone. Where is my phone?

I pat my pockets frantically, wincing at the pain that shoots through my face where Carlo's fist connected. My fingers close around the familiar shape, pulling it out with trembling hands. The screen is cracked, spiderwebbed with fractures that make the display difficult to read.

Please work. Please, please work.

I punch in Tomasso's number from memory, pressing the phone to my ear as I cradle Stefano's head in my lap. The connection crackles, static filling the line, and I bite back a sob of frustration.

"Come on," I plead to no one and everyone. "Please connect."

The ringing finally gives way to a voice. It’s Tomasso's, sharp with urgency.

"Where are you?" he demands without preamble.

"The warehouse," I gasp, relief making my voice shake. "East side industrial district. Stefano's hurt—badly. The Fiori brothers are dead, but their men are trying to break in and?—"

The sound of splintering wood punctuates my words as the warehouse door gives way another inch.

"We're already on our way," Tomasso says, his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of an engine. "Five minutes, maybe less. There's a back exit through the loading bay. Can you get there?"

I look at Stefano, at the blood soaking through his clothes, at the unnatural pallor of his skin. "He's unconscious. I can't move him by myself."

"Try to barricade to door. We're coming."

The sound of screeching tires comes through the line, followed by muffled shouting. Then, clearer, "Just hold on. Both of you."

The call ends abruptly, leaving me alone with the silence and the growing pool of blood beneath the man I love. The man I might lose.

"Tomasso's coming," I tell Stefano, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin feels clammy, cold. "He's bringing help. You just need to hold on a little longer."

I glance at the door, where the pounding has momentarily ceased. They're regrouping, probably planning a more coordinated assault. Do they know about the loading bay?

I need to buy us time.

I force myself to stand on shaky legs. The room spins briefly, my body protesting every movement after the fight. But there's no time for weakness. Not now.

I scan the warehouse for anything I can use to barricade the door. A stack of pallets stands against one wall. They're heavy, awkward, but might buy us precious minutes. I drag them one by one, piling them against the entrance, ignoring the screaming pain in my muscles and the warm trickle of blood from where Carlo's ring cut my cheek.

The Fiori brothers lie where they fell, Marco with his throat cut open, Carlo with his head caved in from Stefano's relentless assault.

I try not to look at them as I work, but it's impossible to ignore the coppery smell of blood that permeates the air, or the way my shoes leave crimson footprints across the concrete.

I did this. I killed a man.

The thought feels distant, detached, like it belongs to someone else. There will be time for horror later. Time for regret, for nightmares, for processing what I've become in this moment of desperation.

But not now. Now there is only survival.

When the last pallet is in place, I grab a length of rusty chain hanging from a nearby hook and thread it through the makeshift barricade. It won't hold forever, but it might give Tomasso enough time to reach us.

I return to Stefano, kneeling beside him, pressing my hands over the worst of his wounds to slow the bleeding. His skin is ashen, his breathing increasingly shallow and irregular.

"Don't you dare die on me," I whisper fiercely. "Not after everything we went through. Not when I finally admitted I love you."

The words hang in the air between us, more honest than anything I've said in years. Maybe ever.

I do love him. Despite the lies, the manipulation, the forced marriage. Despite everything. Or maybe because of it. Because beneath the monster everyone fears, there's a man who would tear the world apart to protect what's his. A man who saw me, really saw me, when everyone else just saw a pretty face or a useful tool.

I press harder on his wound, willing the bleeding to stop. "You have to live, Stefano. We're having a baby, remember? Your heir. The next generation of the great Rega family."

My voice cracks on the last words, tears spilling down my cheeks, mixing with the blood and grime. I lean closer, my lips brushing his ear.

"I'll even let you build me that ranch in Montana. The one with the wraparound porch. But you have to live, you hear me? You have to fight."

For a moment, I think I see his eyelids flutter, but it might be wishful thinking. He remains still, his life literally seeping away between my fingers.

Outside, engines roar in the distance, getting closer. Tomasso, hopefully. But the Fiori men have returned to the door as well, their renewed assault making the pallets shift ominously.

I glance around frantically, looking for anything else I can use to fortify our position. My eyes land on Carlo's gun, lying forgotten where it fell during the struggle. I hesitate for a split second. I've never been comfortable with firearms, then lunge for it.

The weight is unfamiliar in my hand as I check the magazine. Three bullets left. Not much, but better than nothing.

I position myself between Stefano and the door, gun raised, prepared to do whatever it takes to keep him safe. To keep our child safe. To give us both a chance for a future I never thought possible.

The barricade shudders as something heavy rams against it from the other side. A voice shouts orders in Italian. It’s too muffled to make out the words, but the intent is clear.

They want blood. Revenge for their fallen bosses.

I click off the safety, steeling myself for what's coming. Three bullets. Make them count.

The chain groans, links straining under the repeated assault. One of the pallets shifts, creating a gap. I see movement beyond, dark shapes, the glint of weapons.

I take aim, finger tensing on the trigger?—

"AVA! STEFANO!" Tomasso's voice cuts through the chaos. "WE'RE HERE!"

The sound of gunfire erupts outside, followed by shouting and the screech of tires. The assault on our barricade abruptly ceases as the Fiori men turn to face the new threat.

Relief makes my hands shake so badly that I nearly drop the gun. I crawl back to Stefano, pressing my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It's there, weak, thready, but present.

"Did you hear that?" I say, smoothing his hair back with trembling fingers. "Help is here. You just need to hold on a little longer."

The sounds of fighting continue outside, sharp bursts of gunfire, shouts in Italian, the crash of metal on metal. I keep pressure on Stefano's wound with one hand, the gun clutched in the other, watching the barricade for any sign of breakthrough.

Minutes feel like hours, each second marked by Stefano's increasingly labored breathing. The bleeding has slowed, but he's lost so much already. Too much.

"Please," I whisper, not sure who I'm pleading with—Stefano, God, the universe? "Please don't take him from me. Not now. Not like this."

As if in response, the warehouse falls eerily silent. The gunfire stops. The shouting ceases. All I can hear is my own heartbeat thundering in my ears and Stefano's ragged breathing beside me.

Then, cautiously: "Ava? It's Tomasso. We've secured the perimeter. It's safe to come out."

I don't move, don't lower the gun. It sounds like Tomasso, but I can’t be sure. Trust doesn't come easily in this world, and the past few hours have taught me just how quickly situations can turn deadly.

"How do I know it's really you?" I call back, voice steadier than I feel.

A pause, then, "Stefano keeps a photo of you from when you were sixteen in his wallet. Has for years. Says it's to remind him what he's searching for."

The simple truth of it brings fresh tears to my eyes. Of course he does. Obsessive, possessive man. My man.

"He needs medical attention," I say, finally lowering the gun. "Right now. He's lost too much blood."

"We have paramedics. Move the barricade if you can."

With renewed strength born of desperate hope, I pull away the chain and drag the pallets aside. The door swings open to reveal Tomasso, flanked by Stefano's men, all armed, all radiating lethal purpose. Behind them, I glimpse black SUVs and what looks like a mobile medical unit.

Tomasso takes one look at Stefano and barks orders in rapid Italian. Men rush forward with a stretcher, medical equipment at the ready. I try to stay close as they work on him, but Tomasso gently pulls me aside.

"Let them help him," he says, his eyes taking in my blood-soaked clothes, the cut on my cheek, the way I'm cradling my ribs where Carlo's kick landed. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say automatically, my eyes never leaving Stefano as the medics insert IVs, apply pressure dressings, check his vitals. "The baby?"

"We'll have you checked too," he promises. "But Stefano first. He's the priority."

I nod, unable to argue with that. My own injuries seem inconsequential compared to the gaping wound in Stefano's side, the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way the medics exchange concerned glances as they work.

"The Fiori brothers?" Tomasso asks quietly.

I gesture vaguely toward the bodies, suddenly exhausted beyond words. "Dead."

He nods, unsurprised. "Good."

We watch in silence as the medics stabilize Stefano enough to transfer him to the stretcher. His face is obscured by an oxygen mask now, tubes and wires connecting him to portable monitors that beep with concerning irregularity.

"Will he survive?" I ask, my voice small, broken.

Tomasso doesn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the man who is both his boss and his friend. "He's strong," he says finally. "A fighter."

It's not the reassurance I was hoping for, but it's honest. And in a world built on lies, honesty is its own kind of kindness.

As they lift the stretcher, I move forward, needing to touch Stefano one last time before they take him away. Needing him to know I'm here. That I'm not running. Not anymore.

"Sorry about the mess," I say, attempting humor through my tears as I take his limp hand in mine. "But you're going to be okay. Do you hear me, Stefano Rega? You're going to live through this because I'm not done yelling at you yet."

For just a moment, I think I feel his fingers tighten around mine, the faintest pressure, a whisper of response. Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but persistent.

"I love you," I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. "I have for longer than I want to admit. So you have to fight. For me. For our baby. For that damn ranch in Montana you promised to build."

They begin to wheel him away, but I keep hold of his hand until the very last moment, until distance forces our fingers to separate. The loss of contact hits like physical pain.

"I'll ride with him," Tomasso says, gesturing for me to follow another of Stefano's men to a waiting SUV. "Meet us at the private clinic."

I nod, too exhausted to argue, too numb to do anything but comply. As I walk away from the warehouse, from the bodies, from the blood, from the evidence of what I've become capable of, I catch sight of the Fiori brothers one last time.

They look smaller in death. Less powerful. Just men, in the end. Men who underestimated what a woman would do to protect those she loves.

Outside, the night air feels shockingly clean after the warehouse's copper-and-fear stench. I gulp it down, letting it clear my head as I'm guided to one of the waiting vehicles.

The city sprawls around us, oblivious to the power vacuum we've just created, to the blood that's been spilled, to the fact that my entire world hangs in the balance along with Stefano's life.

As the SUV pulls away, following the medical transport carrying Stefano, I rest my hand on my stomach. Our child. The heir to an empire built on blood and power. A legacy I never wanted, never asked for, but somehow find myself fighting to protect.

"Your father's a stubborn, impossible man," I whisper to the life growing inside me. "But he loves us. And he's going to fight to come back to us. I know it."

The certainty in my voice surprises me. After a lifetime of lies, of cons, I find myself confronted with a truth so profound, it shakes the foundations of everything I thought I knew about myself.

I believe in him. In us.

In the future we might build from the ashes of today's violence.

And as the lights of the city blur past, as we race toward whatever comes next, I hold that belief close, a talisman against fear, against doubt, against the darkness that threatens to swallow us whole.

Stefano will survive.

He has to.

Because I'm not letting him go.

Not now.

Not ever.