I look up to see Rocco entering the room—his arm in a sling, bruises blooming across his jaw, dried blood still staining his shirt.
He freezes when he sees me awake. “Elena?” he whispers, stunned.
I motion him closer with my free hand, careful not to wake Alessandro.
Rocco approaches the bedside, expression a battlefield—guilt, fear, rage, relief. I reach out and take his hand. He stiffens. Then he swallows hard. I see the torment in his eyes. The way he blames himself.
I squeeze his fingers gently. “Rocco,” I whisper, “I’m okay.”
His jaw flexes, and for a moment I think he might cry.
“You saved my life,” I continue. “You protected me. Thank you.”
He shakes his head once, sharply. “Always” he murmurs.
The word settles warm in my chest.
Family.
That’s what this is.
Alessandro shifts in his sleep, tightening his hold on me, and Rocco steps back with a faint, pained smile.
“Rest,” he whispers. “I’ll be right outside.”
Three days. Three long, tense, suffocating days.
I’m healed enough now that my head barely aches, but Alessandro—my fierce, relentless husband—is unraveling thread by thread.
He barely sleeps. He barely eats unless I beg. He leaves before sunrise and doesn’t return until the house is drowned in moonlight.
And every night when he finally crawls into bed, his body is shaking with exhaustion and rage.
He pulls me close, buries himself in me, losing the storm inside his chest in my skin—but it doesn’t soothe him for long.
He’s a man possessed. A man hunting ghosts with bloodied hands. A man terrified of losing me. And I can’t stand watching him destroy himself.
Tonight the house is full.
Gia is sprawled on my couch like she lives here.
Isabella, ever soft but sharp beneath it, sits cross-legged on the armchair, sipping tea.
Sofia, is sitting on the floor sprawled over her coloring books.
It’s almost midnight. Alessandro still isn’t home. My chest aches.
I slam my book shut.
Gia looks up, eyebrows raised. “Uh-oh. The quiet one looks pissed.”
I stand so fast Isabella’s tea sloshes over the rim. “I’m done,” I say, voice shaking. “He’s working himself into the ground, and I’m not just going to sit here waiting for him to pass out in a warehouse somewhere because he won’t let himself rest.”
Gia smirks. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to snap.” Then she sobers. “But what are you actually planning, El?”
“I’m going to the warehouse,” I announce, lifting my chin. “I’m dragging him home myself.”
Gia chokes on her wine. Isabella smiles like she’s been waiting for this.
