"Don't you dare leave me, stellina," he whispers against my hair, his voice raw. "Don't you dare. We're not done. We have so much left to do. So many stars to see."
The photograph of Tommy has fallen somewhere. I try to reach for it, but my arm won't work. Alessandro notices, understands somehow, and presses it back into my hand. The glossy paper crumples further in my weak grip.
"I've got you," he promises as footsteps thunder up the stairs. Dr.Castellano and others, voices overlapping, hands pulling me away from him. "I've got you, and I'm not letting go."
But Alessandro won't let them separate us completely. His hand stays locked around mine even as they work, his grip almost painful, like he's trying to anchor me to life through sheer force of will.
The last thing I hear before the darkness takes me completely is Alessandro's voice against my ear, savage and tender, a broken vow that follows me into the void:
"If you die, I'll follow you. I'll hunt you through whatever hell you're running to. You don't get to leave me, Emma. Not in this life or any other."
24 - Alessandro
Two hours, thirty-one minutes, and nine seconds since Emma last opened her eyes.
I count each breath she takes, shallow and uneven, while Dr.Castellano checks her vitals for the fourth time since he arrived. His fingers press against her wrist, measuring a pulse that feels like she's already half-gone, one foot in death's territory.
We are in the medical wing of the compound, which Marco had installed a few months ago. Too many trips to the damn hospital, too many questions from too many people. Better to keep it all in-house. And, of course, Castellano is the best doctor money can buy.
"Stable," he murmurs, but stable means nothing when she won't wake up, when her body fights a battle her mind has already surrendered.
Two hours, thirty-one minutes. Since I breathed life back into her lungs. Since she chose death over me.
The photos spread across my lap tell a horror story: Tommy's face beaten beyond recognition, blood pooling beneath his crumpled form, other inmates standing over him like it's nothing. Horrible enough to make Emma swallow those pills. She didn't even stop to ask why somebody sent her the photos. The photos achieved their purpose. They broke her completely.
I reach for Emma's wrist, needing to feel her pulse myself, needing proof she's still here. The rhythm under my fingers is threadbare, barely there, and my fingers go still as deathitself, that dangerous calm before I destroy something. This woman who learned to love my violence, who kissed my bloody knuckles, chose death over life with me. The metallic taste of rage fills my mouth as I realize the truth that's been eating at me: I can't control this. Can't force her to choose life. Can't protect her from the darkness inside her own mind.
Even unconscious, her body calls to mine. I trace the bruises on her hip from our last night together, these marks of possession that couldn't keep her here. Her vanilla scent fades under medical sterility, antiseptic replacing jasmine, and the loss feels like another kind of death.
Marco arrives without warning, filling Emma's sickroom doorway with barely contained fury. The weight of his Beretta presses against his ribs, visible to anyone who knows where to look.
"We need answers about our exposure," he demands, eyes taking in Emma's unconscious form with cold calculation. "The blackmailers may be dead, but their network survives. Someone still has evidence. The Hewsons may have gone underground but other families are noticing inconsistencies. Whatever game you're playing ends now."
I move to the side bar, needing distance from his interrogation, needing something to do with hands that want to reach for the Glock against my ribs. The whiskey bottle hits crystal, my hands steady as a surgeon's even as violence pools in my gut. The liquid amber fills the glass perfectly, not a drop spilled, because control is all I have left.
"The entire Rosetti empire is compromised," Marco continues, accepting the drink I offer, studying my too-calm movements. "Your wife's secrets, whatever they are, threaten everything our father built. Every alliance, every territory, every ounce of respect we've earned through blood. One woman's lies could destroy three generations of power."
He sets his glass down untouched, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. Testing me. Waiting.
"She's not Frances Hewson."
The confession tears from my throat, shatters the silence like breaking glass. Each word strips away another layer of protection, another lie that's kept her safe.
"Her name is Emma Pitt. She was their servant." The truth tastes bitter. "The Hewsons forced her to play their daughter when Frances disappeared before our wedding."
Marco goes deadly calm, the kind of stillness that precedes massacres. His hand drifts to his jacket, fingers finding the grip of his weapon.
"Explain."
Not a request. An order from the head of our family to a subordinate who's lost his mind.
"I already did," I say.
"A servant." The words come out flat, emotionless. "You married a servant girl and let her fool our entire family."
"She had no choice. They used her brother as leverage…"
"I don't care about her reasons." Marco steps toward Emma's bed, each movement deliberate. "This problem needs to be eliminated."
