That's all that matters.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Bianca
The warehouse fades behind us and my hands won't stop shaking. Adrian's blood, the crack of his neck, the way his eyes went empty—it's all I can see when I blink.
"Where to?" Tony asks from the driver's seat.
I open my mouth to say home, but what comes out is: "The clinic."
Dante's hand tightens on mine. "Bianca?—"
"I need to see my mom." My voice cracks. "Please. Now."
He studies my face and something in my expression must convince him because he nods at Tony. "St. Catherine's."
Dante pulls out a clean shirt, I guess he keeps one in every car for situations like these. He uses some wipes to clean up the best he can, removing the blood, and then grabs a first aid kit stored in the door and disinfects and bandages his cuts. He then buttons up the clean shirt and slicks back his hair.
The drive is endless, every red light and every slow car making my chest tighter. Something's wrong—I feel it in my bones, in the way the pendant suddenly weighs too much against my chest.
We pull up at midnight. The building is quiet, most lights off except the soft glow from patient rooms.
Patricia meets us at the entrance, and I can see that her eyes are red.
No.
"Miss Mancini. I’ve been calling for you but your phone was turned off." Her voice is too gentle, too sad. "She's been asking for you."
My legs go weak and Dante's arm comes around my waist, holding me upright.
"How long?" I manage.
"Hours. Maybe less." Patricia touches my shoulder. "Dr. Kent said... you should say goodbye."
The hallway stretches impossibly long and each step feels like walking through water. Dante stops at Mom's door. "I'll wait here."
I nod, can't speak, just push through alone.
The room smells like antiseptic and something else—something final.
Mom's so small in that bed. When did she get so small?
"Mom?"
Her eyes flutter open, cloudy and unfocused, then they find me and clear slightly. "Bianca."
"I'm here." I cross to her, take her hand. It's cold, too cold. "I'm right here."
"Good." A weak smile. "I was waiting."
Tears blur my vision. "Don't talk like that?—"
"We both know." Her fingers squeeze mine with surprising strength. "It's okay, sweetheart."
It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
I kick off my shoes and climb into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle the IV lines. She shifts to make room and I curl into her side like I used to when I was little and had nightmares.
