Maybe he had crushed it.
While I struggled to get air down, I was aware of voices. They were speaking in Italian, the words rattling around in my head, making no sense.
Air was slipping in, but barely. It felt like just enough to keep my head below the clouds. He’d only had his hands on me for—a second? two?—and it felt like he had killed me.
Tears slipped down my cheeks when the daughter I would never get to hold again came to my mind. All she would get was pictures and videos of me. How would she ever truly know how much I loved her? How sorry I was for not remembering her? For not holding her closer when I had the chance.
The loss of breath was nothing compared to the anguish in my heart. I realized I was dying with so many regrets, and they were all for the time I would never get with my baby and Aniello again.
“Rosalia.”
I sucked in a gulping breath, but it burned so fucking bad.
“Rosalia, look at me.”
The simple wordsI can’tcouldn’t even leave my mouth. They hurt too bad. Aniello’s face was over mine, going in and out of focus.
“Breathe, Rosalia.” His voice was full of command, and so were his hands. He held me up while I probably looked like a fish out of water, gasping, greedy for air. “Slow. Take slow breaths.”
I tried, but the need to gulp them down was like thirst after going so long without a drop.
“Breathe,” he said again. “Slow. Take it slow.”
I listened to him, really listened to him, and did as he said.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice more soothing, and so were his hands. He pulled me close and kissed me on the forehead. “You’re getting enough. Keep breathing.”
After a minute or so, my head stopped swimming, and I could concentrate on his face. I opened my mouth to speak, but he shook his head.
“Save your breath,” he said, meaning it literally. “I know what you’re going to say.”
I nodded and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I was. I was so sorry that he had a father who valued this life over his son’s love. There was so much I still had to learn about Aniello Assanti, things I knew before, and things only time would reveal, but that man who called himself his father made so many missing pieces click.
He ran a cool hand over my burning throat. “Rarely do I have regrets,” he whispered. “This will be one. That he got this close to you.”
I put my hand over his. “How did you know? That he would come here?” My throat felt as if it was filled with sand, and my voice reflected it.
“I thought like him, Rosalia,” he said. “Then I pulled another bait and switch.”
“Quentin and Abe didn’t call you?” I went to sit up, too fast, and my head spun.
He kept me secure. “They didn’t call,” he said.
I searched his eyes. “Are they okay?”
He nodded. “They’re still downstairs.”
His words were clear, but I was confused as hell. Before I could ask him to explain, noises from outside sent him to the window.
“Niello?” My voice broke on his name. “It’s over, right?”
“No,” he said.
Forcing myself to get to my feet, I stopped briefly to look at the man who tried to kill me. He didn’t have any visible wounds, but his tongue was sticking out. I was pretty sure Niello had done to him what he had intended to do to me.
Pushing the frozen, angry look on Vito’s face out of my mind, I went to stand next to Niello at the window. Big Bismo stood outside with a few men I didn’t recognize.
