Every time the double doors at the end of the corridor swing open, my heart slams violently against my ribs.
But it’s never a doctor.
Never a nurse.
Each time the doors open, hope surges through me like a physical force.Each time they close again, it drains away just as quickly.
The four of us move to a far corner.
As I tell them the story, the weight of it settles even harder on me.
He was conscious when they loaded him onto the helicopter, barely.
His face had already gone pale beneath the harsh floodlights as the medics worked over him, their voices urgent and controlled while they pressed gauze against the wound and secured the stretcher straps.
His hand found mine once.
Just once.
His fingers had been slick with blood when they closed around mine, the grip weak but unmistakably deliberate.
His voice came out rough and low.
“Stay.”
As if I would go anywhere.
The memory tightens my throat.
Because he hadn’t asked if I was hurt.
Hadn’t asked what happened.
His first instinct—even while he was fighting for his life on the side of a Texas road—had been to make sure I didn’t leave.
Now, in front of his family, I press my palms against my eyes, standing there, breathing in the sharp chemical scent of the hospital air and trying to force my racing thoughts into some kind of order.
“He threw me underneath him.”
Everyone standing in that circle knows exactly the same thing.Dante took the bullet that could have killed me.
ChapterThirty-One
Valentina
Matteo’s expression changes subtly.Mafia bosses like him don’t telegraph their emotions.But his shoulders tighten just enough that anyone who knows him would recognize it immediately.
Nico exhales slowly.
Dario swears under his breath.
For a few heartbeats, no one speaks.
Then Matteo drags a hand across his mouth and looks at Nico.
“Who the fuck targets a car carrying a Russo princess and the Moretti underboss?”
The question hangs in the air like smoke.
