"But I didn't. We didn't." I squeezed her hand weakly. "We won, Paola."
"This isn't winning. This is surviving. There's a difference."
Maybe. But right now, survival felt like enough.
At the hospital—one I owned enough of to ensure privacy—doctors took over. Surgery prep for my punctured lung. Treatment teams for Piero's injuries.
A nurse tried to separate Paola from me as they prepped me for the OR. "Ma'am, you can't go into surgery—"
My hand tightened on hers. Wouldn't let go.
My eyes found hers. "Stay close. Until I have to go under."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.
They wheeled me toward the operating room. She walked beside the gurney as far as they'd let her, her hand warm in mine.
At the OR doors, she had to stop. Hospital policy. Sterile environment.
My hand slipped from hers.
The last thing I saw before the doors closed: her eyes on mine, green and fierce and terrified, one hand pressed to her stomach where our child grew.
Then the doors swung shut, and the anesthesia pulled me under.
CHAPTER 17
Paola
Eighteen hours since Pier 76. Eighteen hours since Cesare took a bullet meant for his brother.
I sat beside his hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall with mechanical precision. The ventilator breathed for him whilst his lung healed. Doctors said they'd start bringing him out of sedation tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours felt like twenty-four years.
My hand wrapped around his, careful of the IV line taped to his wrist. His fingers were warm. Alive. That had to be enough.
The nausea hit without warning. I bolted for his private bathroom, barely made it to the toilet before retching. Nothing came up—I hadn't eaten since yesterday—but my stomach twisted anyway. Morning sickness. Except it was three in theafternoon and morning sickness didn't care about time zones or circumstances.
I rinsed my mouth, splashed cold water on my face. The mirror showed a stranger: dark circles, pale skin, tangled hair. Six weeks ago I'd been an art teacher. Now I was a mafia wife carrying the child of an unconscious Don.
When I emerged, Giulio stood near Cesare's bed. He'd brought coffee in a paper cup, the smell turning my stomach again.
"You should rest, Mrs. Monti. Go home. Shower. Sleep."
"I'm not leaving him."
"He's not waking up for hours. The doctors said—"
"I don't care what they said. I'm staying."
Giulio studied me with eyes that had seen too much violence, too much loss. Then he nodded once and took position outside the door. Guard and friend both.
I settled back into the chair, exhausted down to my bones but unable to sleep. Couldn't close my eyes without seeing Cesare go down, blood spreading across his shirt whilst Viktor stood over him with that gun.
The ventilator hissed. Monitors beeped. Time crawled.
Mid-afternoon, commotion erupted in the hallway. Raised voices. A nurse protesting.
"Sir, you shouldn't be walking yet—"
