"You’re pale, Rafael," Gia whispers. She’s crying, her hands pressing a discarded rag against my shoulder, but I can feel the warmth of her palms through the cooling blood. "You’re so pale."
"Don't... don't look at it, Gia," I mutter. I try to focus on her eyes, but they’re moving, dancing in front of me. I reach out with my right hand, fumbling until I find her wrist. "Are you... are you hurt?"
"No," she sobs. "No, I'm fine. Because of you. You idiot, why did you do that?"
I try to smirk, but I don't think my face is working anymore. I look at her—covered in my blood, her eyes full of a terror that makes my heart ache.
"You're... you're a Caruso," I breathe, the words barely catching in my throat. I want to tell her that it wasn't about the name. It wasn't about the alliance. It was about the way the air feels better when she’s breathing it.
But the darkness is closing in, thick and heavy. I can hear Luca shouting for a medic, hear the distant sirens, but they’re fading.
"Stay... stay close," I whisper, my grip on her wrist slackening as my eyes flutter shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Gia
The world is a blurred smear of grey concrete and the copper-tang of blood.
"Get the stretcher! Move, move, move!"
The shouting is distant, like I’m underwater, but the weight of Rafael against the SUV is very real. He’s heavy—all solid bone and dying momentum. His right hand is still clamped around my wrist, his grip so tight it’s going to leave bruises, but I don't care. I want the bruises. I want anything that proves he’s still here, still tethered to this side of life.
"Boss, you have to let her go, let us take you," Luca says, his voice urgent as two medics in gear rush forward with a collapsible gurney.
Rafael’s head is lolling, his skin the color of wet ash, but when the medics reach for him, he snarls. It’s a low, weak sound, but it’s enough to make them pause. He forces his eyes open—glassy, green voids—and fixes them on me. His breathing is a wet, shallow rattle that makes my stomach do a slow, sick roll.
"Gia," he rasps.
"I'm here," I say, my voice cracking like dry wood. I step into his space, ignoring the medic who tries to nudge me back. I grab his face, my hands immediately coming away slick and red. "I'm right here, Rafael. I’m fine. You hear me? Not a scratch. Look at me."
He studies me for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity. He looks at my face, my shoulders, my chest, searching for the hole that was meant for me. Only when he’s satisfied that I’m intact does the last of the strength leave his frame. His shoulders finally slump, and he sways, his knees buckling.
"Okay," he whispers, the word barely a breath.
The medics catch him before he hits the gravel. They hoist him onto the stretcher, their hands moving with clinical speed, cutting away the ruined silk of his black shirt. I watch, paralyzed, as the exit wound on his shoulder is revealed—a jagged, weeping mouth of red that seems to be drinking the light.
"Mrs. Caruso, we need to move," Luca says, his hand on my elbow. He’s pushing me toward the backup SUV, hiseyes scanning the perimeter as the Brotherhood soldiers finish securing the yard.
"I’m going with him," I say, digging my heels into the dirt.
"It’s not safe?—"
"I don't care about safe, Luca! I’m getting in that ambulance or I’m driving myself, but I am not leaving him." I glare at him, my stubbornness rising up like a shield. "Try to stop me and see what happens. I dare you."
Luca looks at the blood on my dress—Rafael’s blood—and then at the fire in my eyes. He sighs, a short, sharp sound. "Get in. But stay low."
The drive is a nightmare of sirens and the smell of antiseptic.
We aren't going to a public hospital. The Brotherhood has its own facilities—private clinics tucked into unassuming office buildings, staffed by doctors who don't ask questions and nurses who know how to scrub gunpowder off a floor.
Rafael is in the back of the lead vehicle with two medics. I’m in the seat right beside him, my hand locked onto his. He’s unconscious now, the blood loss finally claiming the last of his consciousness. Every time the SUV hits a bump, a low groan escapes him, and I flinch like the pain is mine.
Don't die. You beautiful, arrogant idiot. Don't you dare leave me with this guilt. Don't you dare make me the reason you stop breathing.
"Pulse is thready," one of the medicks mutters, his hands busy with a pressure bandage. "He’s lost too much."
"How much longer?" I demand, my heart hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
