I turn my head just enough to see Luca curled against me on the narrow bed, his small body tucked into my good side. One arm is wrapped around my forearm, his fingers clutching mine even in sleep. His face is blotchy, lashes clumped together while tear tracks have long since dried against his cheeks. His chest rises and falls in slow breaths, exhaustion evident on his face.
My heart breaks all over again.
“Oh, baby…” I whisper.
I don’t dare move my arm and wake him. I just watch him, committing the sight to memory that he’s still alive, still breathing when not too long ago—hours? Days? Weeks?—I was certain I was going to watch him die. I can still hear that awful, heart-shattering sound of his scream when Enzo lifted the gun and aimed it at him. A sound no child should ever make.
I remember my body moving before my mind could catch up.
The moment Enzo raised the gun toward my baby, everything else ceased to exist. There was no Dante. No syndicates. No revenge or conspiracies or consequences. There was only Luca and the certainty that if someone was going to die in that room, it would be me.
The impact had been brutal, white-hot as my body had split open from the inside. I remember the sound tearing out of me before I even realized I had gasped, the way my knees buckled and howthe world tilted as Dante burst into the room, his face slack with pure, unfiltered horror.
Even then through the pain and the shock, I knew I’d made the right choice.
I would make it again. Every single time.
What hurts more than the wound stitched up on my side is the knowledge that Luca saw it all. That he was there, that his small mind now has to process the sight of his mother bleeding out on the floor because those much more powerful than the both of us decided it so.
I hate that more than anything.
I hate that his first memories of Sicily will be this instead of sunlight and laughter like I had in my childhood. I hate that the innocence I fought so hard to protect while we were in New York eventually cracked under the weight of this world the way I feared it one day would. I hate that he knows on some level that people wanted him dead simply for existing.
But… at least he is alive.
Wearealive.
The thought sends a shaky wave of relief through me, enough to make my eyes burn.
Only then do I lift my eyes and move them around the room.
Dante sits in the chair beside the bed, hunched forward like he’s been there for hours—days, maybe—unmoving. His sleeves are rolled up, his jacket gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His head is bowed slightly as his dark hair falls into his eyes.
As much as I prayed he wouldn’t come for Luca and me, hoped like hell he’d stay away so my son wouldn’t have to watch his father die trying to save us, seeing him tear through that room to reach us was the second best thing that’s ever happened to me. Second only to the day Luca was born.
There had been no hesitation in Dante, none of that cold calculation I’m so used to seeing. Just pure, feral intent as he crossed that space like nothing in the world could stop him from getting to us. The image of him dropping to his knees beside us, his hands shaking as he pressed them to my wound, is burned into me just as deeply as the pain.
I watch him now for a long while, letting the quiet settle around us. His face twitches faintly in sleep, tension still etched into the lines of his brow even here, safely tucked away inside a hospital room.
For the first time in years, I let myself look at him without anger or fear clouding my vision. To the man who ran into gunfire for his family and who nearly lost everything again and somehow still fought to save us anyway.
I look down at Luca again and slowly reach up to brush my fingers through his tangled hair. His grip tightens reflexively around my arm as if some part of him is still afraid I might vanish if he lets go.
“You’re awake.” The sound of the voice makes me flinch.
My eyes snap up too fast, causing the room to swim for a second before my vision slowly focuses.
Dante.
He’s leaning forward in the chair now, elbows braced on his knees while he watches me intently. Now that his eyes are open, I can see the damage the last few days have done to him. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath them, darker than I’ve ever seen before. Thin, red veins spider across the whites around his pupils, evidence of the level of exhaustion he’s been faced with.
When I try to speak, nothing comes out, my throat scratching like sandpaper. Dante is already moving, though, reaching for a small plastic cup filled with water on the bedside tray next to the machines. He brings it up to my lips without a word, keeping one hand under my head to steady it.
“Slow,” he murmurs, barely louder than the machines.
I do as he says, taking small sips. The coolness spreads across my tongue and down my throat, soothing the raw ache there and easing the dryness that makes every breath feel like effort. Relief swells so suddenly, it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
I blink them back, swallowing again.
