The jagged stitching and purple and yellow marks bloom across my side like a cruel reminder. Proof that I survived when Sienna didn’t. My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, tears spill over, hot and silent.
“How the hell am I still here?” I whisper.
The question echoes off the tiles and no answer comes.
In the shower, I move carefully, letting the water run over me. The heat stings, then soothes, washing away the smell of hospital antiseptic and grief. I close my eyes and let the steam blur the edges of everything until the world feels softer, less real. For a few fragile minutes, I pretend none of it happened. No gunfire, no screaming, no blood on my hands. Just warmth and water and breath.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged, and for once, I’m grateful not to see my reflection. I wrap a towel around myself and lean against the sink, breathing slowly until the shaking in my hands eases.
In my room, I let the towel fall and freeze. There’s blood on it. My stomach twists as I look down.
“Damn it,” I whisper, biting back a groan.
There’s dark blood seeping from the wound on my side, thin but steady. Did I tear a stitch? I grab a few tissues, pressing them hard against the spot. The pain flares, sharp and hot, radiating up my ribs.
“Great,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
I slip into panties and shorts, wincing at the pull of the fabric. The bra is worse. I manage to fasten it, but every breath feels like fire licking my side. I debate putting on a shirt, but the blood is already soaking through the towel I clutch to my ribs. I settle for wrapping it around me tighter, hoping it will catch the worst of it.
When I open the door, the hallway yawns before me, long and silent. The lights are dimmed, the penthouse still asleep.
Lorenzo’s door is shut.
My fingers twitch on the towel.Is he in there? And if he is, is he alone?
For a moment, I just stand there, torn between common sense and the quiet, desperate thought that he might know what to do. He always seems to know what to do. I take one hesitant step toward his door, then another. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, the only sound the faint hum of the city through the windows below.
When I reach his door, I lift my hand to knock and then stop. My heart is pounding too fast. I shouldn’t be here. I should call Rosa. I should?—
A sound cuts through my panic.
His low voice, talking to someone on the phone.
I can’t make out the words as he speaks rapidly in Italian, just the sharp and commanding tone. It’s the voice of the man everyone else fears, the one that makes even his enemies obey.
But beneath it there’s something else. Weariness.
My breath catches, the pain in my side momentarily forgotten.
I take a step back, then another. Maybe I’ll wait. Maybe I’ll patch myself up and pretend I never?—
The door opens.
And there he is.
Lorenzo stands in the doorway, barefoot and shirtless, wearing only the black slacks he had on earlier. There’s a phone still in his hand. His gaze drops immediately to the towel pressed against my side and the blood.
“Elizabeth,” he says, my name low and rough, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “You’re bleeding.”
“I—” I swallow, my voice trembling. “I took a shower. I think I might’ve torn a stitch.” I glance down at the towel and the dark bloom spreading slowly across the white and try not to panic. “I don’t know, though. Do you… do you think I should see a doctor?”
He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes flicking over my face, then lower, assessing. The air between us feels charged and heavy.
Then he steps aside. “Come in. I’ll take a look at it.”
I hesitate in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you?—”
“You’re already here,” he says simply. “Come in.”
