They're moving him toward the sitting room and I'm frozen in the hallway watching them, watching the blood drip on the floor, watching Enzo's head loll forward. My chest is caving in, the air disappearing from the room, and I can't breathe, I can't think, I can only see red.
So much red.
"Isabella." Alessia's hand on my arm, firm and grounding. "Breathe."
I can't breathe.
They get him to the couch and lay him down, his eyes are closed and his face is pale, so pale, paler than I've ever seen anyone look who wasn't dead, and the thought makes something break loose in my chest.
"Where's the fucking doctor?!" Matteo demands.
"Five minutes out," someone answers.
I'm moving before I decide to, crossing to the couch, Dante sees me coming and shifts to give me room as I kneel beside Enzo, my hands shaking so badly I can barely reach out to touch him.
His hand is hanging off the edge of the couch.
I take it.
His fingers are cold. Limp. He doesn't squeeze back.
"Enzo," I whisper, my voice cracking completely. "Enzo, please."
Nothing.
Dante has his hands pressed against Enzo's side, applying pressure to the wound, and I can see the blood seeping through his fingers, dark and relentless, and I think I might be sick.
"Just how bad is it?" Matteo asks, crouching on the other side of the couch.
"Very bad," Dante says flatly. "Deep penetration. He's been bleeding for almost forty minutes."
Oh my God.
Forty minutes of blood loss while they drove back here, while I was sitting in the other room drinking wine and laughing, completely unaware that Enzo was dying.
"Stay with us," Rafael says, and it takes me a second to realize he's talking to Enzo, not me. "Come on, Bianchi. Stay conscious."
Enzo's eyes flutter but don't open.
I squeeze his hand harder and lean closer. "Enzo, can you hear me? Please. Please stay with me."
The front door opens again and the doctor rushes in with his bag, already assessing the situation as he moves, and people shift to give him room, but I don't let go of Enzo's hand.
"Someone tell me what happened," the doctor says, already cutting away Enzo's shirt.
"Single knife wound, lower right side, deep," Dante reports. "Approximately forty-five minutes ago. Conscious until ten minutes ago."
The doctor nods and keeps working, his hands efficient and practiced. When he pulls the fabric away and I see the wound my vision goes spotty at the edges.
It's deep. So deep. The edges ragged, angry and still bleeding despite all the pressure, I can see too much, can see things that should be inside staying inside, and my stomach turns over violently.
"Isabella." Alessia's voice again, closer now. "You need to sit back. Let him work."
"No."
"You're in the way."
"I don't care."
