"She's already planning our wedding."
"Probably picked out the venue years ago." I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Just waiting for me to stop being an idiot."
"Took you long enough."
"Almost dying helped clarify some things."
She goes still against me. "Don't joke about that."
"Who's joking?"
Her fingers find mine, interlacing carefully to avoid the IV. "I thought I'd lost you."
"You didn't."
"I know. But I thought—" Her voice catches. "I thought you'd die thinking I hated you."
"I knew you didn't." That's not entirely true, but she doesn't need to know about the dark hours in the warehouse, bleeding out on cold concrete, wondering if I hate you would be the last words I ever heard from her.
"Liar."
"Sometimes."
She lifts her head to look at me, and there are tears in her eyes that she's trying very hard to hide. I reach up—slowly, because everything hurts—and brush my thumb across her cheekbone.
She kisses me. And then pulls back.
"Sleep," she orders.
I want to argue. Want to keep talking, keep touching her, keep confirming that this is real and she's here and I didn't fuck everything up beyond repair.
But my body has other plans.
The last thing I feel before sleep drags me under is her fingers tracing patterns on my palm and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
For the first time in weeks, I don't dream of losing her.
CHAPTER FORTY
Kristen
Two weeks later, I'm sitting at a dinner table surrounded by criminals, and the strangest part? It feels like home.
Giulia returned from Sicily three days ago, tanned and rested and immediately horrified by the state of the spice cabinet. She and Aria have been cooking since dawn, filling the compound with smells that make my stomach growl.
Everyone is here. Everyone.
Pietro sits at the head of the table with Nora beside him. Lorenzo and Sophia arrived an hour ago. Vittoria keeps stealing bread rolls when she thinks no one's looking. Valentino and Carmela flew in from Sicily specifically for this dinner, which Aria insisted was "just family time" but feels more like a celebration.
And Bruno.
Bruno is here.
He's positioned his wheelchair at the corner of the table, as far from the center of attention as possible without actually leaving the room. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard, but he's here.Aria practically dragged him out of his wing, invoking guilt and maternal obligation and probably some threats I didn't hear.
"Only because you insisted," he'd growled at her when he arrived.
"Of course I insisted," Aria had replied, kissing his cheek. "You're my son. You belong at this table."
