And I was almost six weeks pregnant, alone, with Viktor potentially walking free in a week.
I slid down the wall, sat on the floor, hand on my stomach.
"Please," I whispered. To God, to fate, to anyone listening. "Please don't let me lose them. Don't let our baby lose their father and uncle. Please."
Hours passed. No update.
Then, finally, a doctor emerged from the OR.
Their expression was grave.
"Mrs. Monti, we need to talk about your brother-in-law."
CHAPTER 18
Cesare
Pain dragged me up through layers of fog. Chemical-thick darkness that clung to my consciousness, refusing to let go.
Everything hurt.
Chest. Ribs. Lungs burning with each breath like I'd inhaled broken glass.
Beeping. Steady, rhythmic. Monitors.
An antiseptic smell. Bleach and iodine and something underneath—blood, maybe.
The hospital.
Memory surfaced in fragments. Pier 76. Viktor's gun. Piero bleeding on concrete. The gunshot—
My eyes cracked open. Fluorescent lights stabbed into my skull. I squinted against them, tried to orient myself.
White ceiling tiles. An IV pole. Heart monitor.
I tried to sit up. Pain exploded through my chest—white-hot, immediate. My lungs seized. I gasped, fell back against pillows.
"Don't move."
Paola's voice cut through the haze. Her hand landed on my shoulder, gentle but firm. Dark curls falling around features I'd memorized.
Red-rimmed eyes. Exhausted. She'd been crying.
"You're okay," she said, voice tight with relief. "You're in the hospital. You had surgery. Don't try to move."
"Paola." My voice came out rough. Sandpaper on metal. "How long?"
"Almost two days. It's Friday afternoon. They kept you sedated while your lung healed."
Two days. I'd lost two days.
"Piero?"
The most important question.
Her face did something complicated. Fear and relief twisted together.
"He's alive. But Cesare, he had complications. Internal bleeding they missed initially. He went into emergency surgery last night."
