“Of course I came.”
Vincenzo dropped to one knee beside her bed, bringing himself level with her like gravity no longer mattered.
His voice deepened—thick, raw, stripped of everything except urgency and something dangerously close to emotion.
“I’ll always come for you.”
Always.
The word echoed in my head.
Violet’s trembling hand lifted slightly.
Vincenzo caught it immediately.
Without hesitation.
He cradled her hand between both of his, careful—almost reverent—as if she were made of something delicate enough to shatter at the slightest pressure.
“It’s...” she began, her voice wavering, “already a miracle I’ve lived this long...”
A cough tore through her.
Wet. Violent.
When she pulled her hand back slightly, there were dark flecks of blood at the corner of her lips.
She looked like she was slipping away in front of him.
He didn’t look away.
Vincenzo grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket—crisp white linen, untouched—and leaned in to gently wipe the blood from her lips.
His movements were careful and tender.
The kind of touch I had never received from him.
“God, Violet...” His voice broke slightly, just at the edges.
“I wish so badly that you could live longer... it pains me to see what this congestive heart failure is doing to you.”
The words were quiet.
But they carried weight.
Violet shook her head faintly, a small, pained movement that seemed to take all the strength she had left.
“No... no, Vin...” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“If it truly hurt you that I could die from my heart failure, you would have given me Elena’s heart... so I could live.”
Another cough.
More blood.
Her body trembled slightly as pain rippled through her, but she kept her eyes on him—like he was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
“I don’t want to die, Vin...”
