"Because I refused to let you leave without it. I made you put your vest on — for me, for the baby."
"You disobeyed my orders by coming to the pier at all."
"I saved your life. Both count."
"Yes." I managed a slight smile. "You did. Thank you."
She laughed through tears. Messy, genuine. "You're welcome." Silence settled between us. Just breathing. Being alive together.
Time to stop being a coward about this.
"There's something I need to say."
She looked at me, waiting, green eyes still wet with tears. I'd never been good with words. With feelings. With vulnerability.
But I'd almost died. She'd almost lost me. Our baby had almost lost both parents.
"I love you." No hesitation. "I love you, Paola. Not because you're my wife or because you're carrying my child. I love you because you're you. Because you're brave and stubborn and you saved me even when I told you not to."
Her breath caught. Fresh tears fell.
"I love you too," she whispered. "I've been wanting to say it for weeks but I was scared. And then you got shot and I thought I'd never get to tell you and—"
"I'm here. You can tell me now."
"I love you, Cesare Monti. I love you so much it terrifies me."
I pulled her down—ignoring the fire in my ribs—and kissed her.
It hurt. Everything hurt.
But this was worth it.
When we broke apart, both of us were crying. Neither of us cared. She rested her forehead against mine.
"Tell me everything about Piero," I said when we'd composed ourselves. "Don't sugarcoat it."
She pulled back slightly. "The surgery last night was extensive. They found internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen. He'd been deteriorating for hours before it became critical."
"Is he going to make it?"
"The doctors say yes. But it was close. Really close."
My chest tightened. Not from the bullet wound; from imagining losing Piero.
"I need to see him."
"He's in the ICU. They won't let you up yet—you just woke up yourself."
"I don't care what they'll let me do. He's my brother. I need to see him."
Paola recognized that tone. "Okay. But we do this smart. You're in a wheelchair. You don't push yourself. The second you're in pain, we come back."
"Deal."
***`
The ICU was two floors up. Quiet. Sterile. Machines everywhere.
