Six to seven hours.
I hate the distance. Hate that I wasn’t there. Hate that every time I step away, she ends up in danger.
I should have stayed. I should never have fucking left.
“Got it, boss.” I barely recognize his voice. He sounds… wounded. Unsteady in a way Valerio never is. “I’ll make sure the security is airtight.”
I don’t remember what I say back. I just remember moving—shoving my arms into my coat, grabbing nothing of importance, rushing out of the room and through the hotel corridor like a man trying to outrun fate.
The next hours pass in fragments.
Airport lights.Voices I don’t register. The blur of customs. The hum of the runway. Asphalt streaking beneath the wheels of the convoy.
Inside, I am nothing but static and panic. Outside, I am composed. Hard. Unreadable.
I cannot—willnot—let anyone see me unravel. Even if it feels like my entire world is splitting at the seams.
I don’t feel my body. Only the burn in my chest.
And her namepounding through every pulse in my skull.
Beatrice. Beatrice. Beatrice.
My phone buzzes. When my son’s name lights the screen, something in me lurches.
I swipe.
“Papa, what the hell is happening? Enzo just brought me to the penthouse and now I’m being told Mama is in the hospital? How?”
My mouth opens, but my throat is too tight for sound.
“Papa.”
“I hear you, my boy,” I manage, voice fractured. “I don’t want you to panic, but your mother has been admitted to the hospital. I don’t know the finer details yet, but I’m on my way home from Geneva now.”
Each word feels like it constricts my lungs further.
“I don’t want you to worry. Valerio is with her.”
“She…” His voice cracks. “Was it… him? Giacomo?”
“No, my boy.” I force steel into my tone for his sake. “She just collapsed. You know how stressed she’s been these past few weeks. I think it finally took its toll and she—fuck.”
The word splinters out of me. I’m trying to hold it together for him, but the edges are fraying. Fast.
I hear him exhale sharply, then mutter a curse beneath his breath. “She’ll be okay. I’ll take care of things until you’re back.”
“Okay,” I whisper, then end the call and lean back into my seat.
Two hours of sleep in forty-eight. Since leaving the States, I’ve been in and out of meetings with allies, shaking hands, gathering intel, moving pieces on this board that’s suddenly turned into a battlefield.
I should try to rest. I’ll need strength when I’m with her.
But I don’t sleep.
I can’t.
I am not a religious man—not by any measure.
