I went down hard, tasted blood, and saw Valentina's face above me as the door fully opened.
She screamed my name.
Then chaos—Morris's team finally arriving, too late, always too late. Gunfire. Shouting. Marco was being dragged away, subdued, and secured.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Valentina dropped beside me, hands pressing against the gunshot wound, blood soaking through her fingers.
"Stay with me," she was saying, crying, voice breaking. "Please stay with me. The babies need you. I need you."
I tried to speak but couldn't. Tried to tell her I loved her, that she was safe. That was all that mattered.
Medical teams rushed in and started working, but everything was fading. Sounds became distant. Vision dimming.
The last thing I saw was Valentina's face.
Last thought before darkness took me:I love you,principessa. Keep our babies safe.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER 22
Valentina
Eight hours.
Alessio had been in surgery for eight hours, and I couldn't breathe properly until someone told me he was alive.
I sat in the hospital waiting room, one hand protectively over my stomach where our twins grew—twelve weeks now, a small bump just starting to show beneath my loose sweater. My other hand ached to hold Alessio's, to feel his touch grounding me like it always did. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, making everything feel surreal and nightmarish.
I couldn't eat or rest, couldn't think about anything except the image burned into my brain: Alessio throwing himself between me and Marco's gun. The impact. The blood. His eyes fluttering closed.
Please let him be okay. Please.
The waiting room door opened. Sofia walked in, moving carefully, her left arm still limited in its range of motion from the nerve damage she'd sustained when Marco's people shot her. Mostly healed now, but she still favored it when she was tired.
"Valentina." She crossed the room, pulled me into a careful one-armed embrace. "Any news?"
"Still in surgery." My voice came out hoarse from crying. "It's been eight hours."
"Then he's strong. He's fighting." She sat beside me, took my hand in her good one. "He'll come back to you. To all three of you."
We sat together—two women who'd nearly lost everything, waiting to see if the man I loved would survive.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the surgeon emerged. Still in scrubs, mask pulled down, exhausted but not grief-stricken.
That had to be good. Right?
"Ms. DeLuca?" He approached carefully, and I stood on shaking legs. "He's alive."
The relief nearly knocked me over. Sofia's arm steadied me.
"The bullet entered below his left arm and traveled inward—it missed his heart by two centimeters," the surgeon continued, exhaustion heavy in his voice. "It nicked his pulmonary artery and completely collapsed his left lung. We had to repair the arterial damage, reinflate the lung, and remove several bone fragments from two fractured ribs." He paused, and I saw the weight of what he'd just done written across his face. "He crashed twice on the table—his heart stopped, and we had to resuscitate him both times. It was touch-and-go for a while, Ms. DeLuca. He's incredibly lucky to be alive. He'll need extensive recovery—we're talking weeks, possibly months—but barring further complications, he should make a full recovery."
"When can I see him?"
"He's in recovery now, still unconscious from anesthesia. Give it a few hours, then we'll take you to the ICU."
