"I'm fine."
Piero appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on a nurse who looked ready to tackle him. His face was gray beneath the bruises, one eye still swollen shut, fresh stitches cutting across his cheekbone.
I stood. "Piero, you should be in bed."
"So should you." He shuffled to Cesare's bedside, each step clearly costing him. Stared down at his unconscious brother.
The nurse gave up, left us alone with a stern warning about fifteen minutes maximum.
Piero's hand shook as he touched Cesare's shoulder. "Idiot. Taking a bullet for me."
"He loves you," I said quietly. "You're his family."
"So are you." He looked at me through his good eye. "He told me. Before the rescue. In case... in case he didn't make it. He told me to protect you and the baby."
My breath caught. "He told you about the baby?"
"Needed me to know. Someone had to protect you both if he..." Piero trailed off. Couldn't finish the sentence.
"But he made it. You both did."
"Yeah. We're hard to kill, us Monti boys." He swayed slightly.
I caught his arm. "Okay, back to bed. Now."
"Bossy. I see why he married you."
Getting Piero back to his room took ten minutes and left both of us exhausted. He collapsed onto his bed with a groan, face going even grayer.
"Next time," I said, adjusting his blankets, "use a wheelchair."
"Next time, tell my brother not to take bullets."
"Deal."
His good eye focused on me. "You're scared."
Not a question. A statement.
"Terrified," I admitted. "What if he doesn't wake up? What if there's permanent damage or—"
"He'll wake up. And he'll be fine. Cesare's survived worse."
"Like what?"
"Like being shot three times during a territory war five years ago. Like a car bomb that killed our uncle but only gave him a concussion. Like..." Piero paused. "Like falling for someone he wasn't supposed to love."
Heat crept up my neck. "He hasn't—we haven't—"
"Please. I've known my brother thirty-two years. He looks at you like you're air and he's drowning."
Before I could respond, his nurse returned and ordered me out. I went, but Piero's words followed me down the hall.
That evening, Cesare's surgeon stopped by to check vitals. Dr. Reeves—late forties, efficient, kind in that clinical way doctors managed.
"He's healing well," she said, reviewing the monitors. "We'll start bringing him out of sedation tomorrow morning."
Relief flooded through me so fast I had to sit. "Thank God."
