“Fuck.”
I rip my hand from his grasp. “Then I’ll get her to whoever is best in the world.”
I don’t care if I have to drag her across continents, I will find someone who can save her.
“Get the doctor who admitted her,” I command, already moving. “And get the best toxicology specialist on the phone. I want answers before the sun is up.”
Valerio doesn’t need more instruction. He’ll handle it.
I reach room 312 and stop. My heart sits in my throat, heavy and violent. I stare at the numbers on the door, steeling myself for whatever waits behind it.
Then I push the door open.
She lies in the center of the room, still as stone, far too pale to look alive. If not for the steady beeping of the monitor, I would think?—
No. I cannot let my mind go there.
She looks so small, so breakable—fragile in a way that guts me.
Just like therooftop years ago, except this time her eyes are closed, and the rise and fall of her chest is the only sign she hasn’t left me yet.
“Amore mio…” My voice is barely a breath over the hum of machines. “Beatrice…”
Nothing. No stir. No flicker.
Of course. She’s fighting for her life—clinging by a single thread—and I am useless to help her.
Bruises bloom along her arms, punctures from IVs and failed attempts to stabilize her blood. My stomach twists, and I have to look away for a moment.
I lower myself into the chair beside her bed, afraid to touch her, afraid I might break whatever fragile tether is keeping her here.
Her skin is cold beneath my fingers. When I wrap my hand around hers, she doesn’t squeeze back.
“Bea…” I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice. “I am so sorry I wasn’t there. I was out trying to stop all of this, but…”
I swallow hard, watching the machines breathe for her, speak for her, live for her.
She gives no sign. No movement.
Just silence.
“Come on,amore mio,” I whisper. “Don’t do this to me. We are so close to ending this. Come back to me. Please. I can’t live without you… you are the blood in my veins. The breath in my lungs. I can’t live without you. Please.”
She doesn’t stir. The machines keep their steady rhythm, the only thing anchoring her to this world.
I lift her hand and press it to my lips like a prayer. I’d trade every breath I have for a single beat of her eyelashes. One look. One word.
Take me. Not her.
I plead with whatever power lives above or below—any voice in the void—for one act of mercy.
“I told you I’d protect you. That nothing would ever touch you again.” My voice fractures. “I didn’t mean just men like him. I meant everything. I should have been here. I never should have left you.”
Still nothing.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I rarely cry—my life was forged without the luxury of softness. This sting gathering under my lids is foreign, unwelcome. I try to blink it back. Now is not the time to break. She is not dead. She won’t be.
Shecan’tbe.
