“Fuck,” I hiss, my heart pounding. Even in all my plans and contingencies, I never accounted for this.
This was always the risk,Matteo’s voice observes with grim acceptance.
We can still fight our way out,Giuseppe insists.We’ve beaten worse odds.
But as I look down at the blood on my hands—Alessandro’s blood mixed with Dominic’s—and hear the federal agents taking positions around the compound while cameras record our every move, I realize that for the first time since this all began that the voices aren’t enough.
I may have won the battle, but the real war is just beginning.
And it’s with the fucking feds and the whole world.
Fuck.
27
ALESSANDRO
Pain.
That’s the first thing that filters through the haze. Sharp, burning pain that spreads from my chest outward like wildfire, making every breath feel like I’m drowning in broken glass. I try to move, try to understand where I am, but my body feels disconnected from my mind, heavy and unresponsive.
Fragments drift in and out of focus. Beeping machines. The antiseptic smell of…hospital? Is that where I am? White ceiling tiles swimming above me. Voices, distant and muffled, like I’m hearing them from underwater.
“…collapsed lung, but we got it re-inflated…”
“…lucky the bullet missed his heart by two centimeters…”
“…full recovery, but it’ll take time…”
Doctor voices. Medical words that float around me without quite landing. I try to focus, try to piece together what happened, but my thoughts feel like scattered puzzle pieces that won’t fit together properly.
But what do I remember?
Blood. I remember blood.
Bianca screaming my name.
The courtyard. The sniper’s rifle. The sound of the bullet tearing through my chest. The pain of the bullet lodging in me.
I try to sit up, panic flooding through me as the memories crash back, but pain explodes through my torso and I fall back against the pillows with a strangled gasp.
Time becomes elastic, meaningless. Pain ebbs and flows like tides. Dreams bleed into reality until I can’t tell which is which. Sometimes I’m back in the courtyard, watching the bullet approach in slow motion. Sometimes I’m in boardrooms full of men in expensive suits who want to destroy everything we’ve built. Sometimes I’m holding Bianca while she cries, her tears mixing with blood that might be mine or might be someone else’s.
Sometimes I catch fragments of conversations in the hallway—voices I recognize mixing with ones I don’t, mentions of “Elena situation” and “Sofia Renaldi” and “never again.” The words don’t make complete sense through the medication fog. Why is the Renaldi daughter being mentioned? And what does Mario DeLuca’s partner have to do with any of this?
Other times, I’m aware of Bianca’s presence without fully waking. The soft sound of pages turning, her familiar scent, the warmth of her hand holding mine. She talks to me sometimes, her voice low and soothing, though I can’t always follow what she’s saying.
“…doctors say you’re healing well. Your lung is completely re-inflated now, and there’s no sign of infection…”
“…Matteo’s been handling the political fallout, but I think we’re going to be okay. The media is actually on our side for once…”
“I love you. I need you to wake up so I can tell you how much I love you…”
I want to respond. I want to tell her I love her too, but my voice won’t work and my eyes won’t open properly. All I can do is try to squeeze her hand and hope she understands.
But gradually, slowly, the fog begins to lift.
The next time I surface to full consciousness, the pain is more manageable, my thoughts clearer. Afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, casting everything in warm golden light. The beeping of machines has become background noise, and I can hear the distant sounds of the city beyond the hospital walls.
