The card he left is in the nightstand drawer. I haven’t looked at it since he slipped it into my hand at the hospital.
I turn my head toward the door.
Even without seeing him, I know Dante is right outside that door, leaning up against the wall right across from it. He insisted on having first watch over us, saying he wouldn’t leave us alone tonight.
My heart twists so hard, it hurts more than the stitches.
I still love him.
Honestly, I never stopped.
I loved him when I was seventeen and reckless, when every tryst felt both sacred and forbidden. I loved him when I was twenty-two and running from the only life I ever knew, carrying his child with me to a foreign city. I loved him even when he found me and brought me back to Italy, even when we fought over and over. And most of all, I loved him when he tore through Don Toselli’s estate like a storm made of flesh and saved us.
But… love isn’t safety.
Not in a world where syndicates like the Bellantis still roam free. Luca has already seen too much. He deserves more than this. He deserves sunlight and laughter and a life where no one ever points a weapon at him again and almost takes his mother’s life.
Dante can’t give him that. No matter how much he wants to. No matter how fiercely he fights. It just isn’t possible.
I swallow the knot in my throat, blinking back the sting behind my eyes.
Tomorrow, when Dante leaves for his morning meeting—the one he always takes in the study with Romano and Bianchi on Tuesdays—I’ll call Nicolo. After that, everything will be out of my hands. I hate myself for doing this to Dante a third time, but I know there’s no other way.
Without waking Luca, I carefully slip out of bed. The dull ache in my side protests immediately, but I grit my teeth and work through it. The monitoring wires cling stubbornly to my skin, the adhesive tugging when I peel them free one by one. It takes far longer than I expect and by the time I’m finished, a thin sheen of sweat has gathered at the back of my neck.
Still, I don’t stop.
When I’m free, I glance back once more to memorize the sight of my son sprawled across the mattress, his hair a dark halo against the pillow, tucked safe and sound under the covers.
I smile, then slip into the hallway.
The door barely clicks shut behind me before Dante’s head snaps up from where he sits in a chair across the hallway. He stands immediately, his eyes instantly sweeping past me to scan the room behind my shoulder with lethal efficiency.
“What’s wrong?” The question is sharp, already edged with readiness. His hand moves toward the weapon at his hip without conscious thought.
I grab his wrist before he can draw it.
His gaze drops to me, alarm shifting into something more searching as he takes me in. “Elena?—”
I don’t let him finish. I place my other hand flat against his chest and gently push him back until his shoulders meet the wall behind him. He allows it, though confusion flickers across his face.
“Dante.”
“What?” His voice lowers, tension threading through that single word.
I release his wrist and bring my hand up to his face.
The moment my palm cups his cheek, the change in him is immediate. The steel drains from his posture. His eyes soften, lashes lowering slightly as he leans into my touch like it’s something he’s been starved for.
My thumb traces the familiar line of his cheekbone.
“I want you,” I whisper.
His breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll refuse. That he’ll remind me that I’m still healing, that I should be in bed and spending this time with our son while he’s out here all alone protecting us.
Maybe it is foolish of me to want this—want him so soon after almost dying. But death has a funny way of reminding you of how fragile life can be. How quickly things can turn for the worst when you least expect them to.
Before I go, I want to spend one last night with him. It’s selfish, I know, but it will be the only thing I've ever done formeand me alone.
