I try to speak. Try to explain. Try to say something—anything—that makes this okay.
Instead, my knees buckle.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is her face.
There she is.
Marina
Dante collapses at my feet.
For three seconds, I don't move. Can't move. My brain short-circuits, stuck in a loop ofthis isn't happening, this isn't real, this is a nightmare and I'll wake up any second now.
Then I see the blood.
It pools beneath him, dark and spreading, soaking into the carpet of my hallway. The copper smell hits me and my stomach lurches.
"No. No, no, no."
I drop to my knees beside him. My hands hover over his body, shaking, useless. Where do I even start? His face is gray. Waxy. His breathing is shallow, ragged.
"Dante." I grab his shoulder, shake him. Nothing. "Dante, wake up."
He doesn't respond.
The blood keeps spreading.
I press my hand against his side where the jacket is soaked through. Warm. Too warm. It seeps between my fingers and I gag.
Think. Think. Think.
I can't call 911. I know that much. Whatever happened to him, whatever he did—hospitals mean police. Police mean questions. Questions mean the Sartori family.
And the Sartori family means?—
I shove that thought away. Focus.
He's too heavy. I try to hook my arms under his shoulders, try to drag him inside, but he's dead weight. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone and I can barely shift him an inch.
"Come on." My voice cracks. "Come on, you bastard, help me."
Nothing.
A door opens somewhere down the hall.
My heart stops.
Footsteps. Someone walking toward the stairs. Mrs. Patterson from 4A, probably. She takes her dog out every night at this time.
I flatten myself against Dante's body, trying to shield the blood from view. Trying to look like anything other than what this is.
The footsteps pass. Fade. A door closes.
I exhale.
But my hands won't stop shaking. My whole body is trembling now, that familiar feeling crawling up my spine. The one that comes before everything falls apart.
Not now. Please, not now.
