"Can I see him?"
"He’s still under heavy sedation. He won't be awake for hours."
"I don't care," I say, already moving past him. "I just need to be there."
The recovery room is silent, save for the rhythmic, reassuring beep of the heart monitor.
Rafael looks different in the hospital bed. It’s the contrast of the white sheets against his tanned skin, the various tubes snaking into his arms making him look... human. Vulnerable. It’s a side of him he’d hate for anyone to see—the Butcher with his guard down.
His shoulder is heavily bandaged, a thick white pad held in place by surgical tape. His face is still pale, the exhaustion of the trauma etched into the lines around his eyes.
I pull a chair up to the side of the bed. I don't sit on it. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my legs tucked under me, careful not to jostle the tubes. I reach out and find his hand. It’s warm. It’s solid. It’s the only thing in the world that feels real right now.
"You idiot," I whisper, my thumb tracing the scars on his knuckles. "You weren't supposed to be a hero. You were supposed to be the man who doesn't care."
He doesn't answer. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each sound is a promise. Each sound is a heartbeat I nearly lost.
"Mrs. Caruso?"
I look up. A young nurse is standing in the doorway, holding a tray with a glass of water and some crackers. "The doctor said you haven't eaten. And there’s a cot in the corner if you’d like to lie down."
"I'm fine, thank you. I just want to stay here."
"You've been awake for hours," the nurse says gently. "He’s stable. He’s not going anywhere. You should get some sleep."
"I’m staying," I say, my voice leaving no room for argument. "He shouldn't wake up alone."
The nurse lingers for a second, looking at the way I’m clutching his hand, then she sets the tray down and slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
Matteo and Dante stop by an hour later. They stand at the foot of the bed, looking at their friend with a mixture of worry and respect.
"He's going to be a nightmare to deal with once he's awake," Dante whispers, a small, tired smirk on his face. "He hates being handled."
"Then we’ll just have to be bigger nightmares," I say, not looking away from Rafael’s face.
"You're going to do a good job of that, Gia," Matteo says, squeezing my shoulder before they leave.
The room settles back into its quiet, sterile peace. I lean forward, resting my forehead against the side of the bed, my eyes fixed on the man who saved my life. I think about the silver wolf charm. I think about Salvatore’s threat. Every moment I spend holding this hand is a betrayal of the mission, but every moment I spend holding it feels like the only thing that's ever made sense.
What am I going to do?
My eyes start to feel heavy. The adrenaline is finally, mercifully, gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that I can't fight anymore. I shift closer, my cheek resting on the mattress right next to his hand. I don't let go. I thread my fingers through his tighter, my grip firm even as my consciousness begins to slip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RAFAEL
Darkness isn’t black. It’s a heavy, suffocating grey that smells like burnt rubber and iron.
I’m drifting in a goddamn soup of morphine and regret. My mind is a fractured mess, looping the same three seconds over and over again. The crack of the rifle. The white dress. The way the air seemed to crystallize around Gia as she stood there, holding my fucking phone like a death warrant.
Move. You have to move.
I try to reach for her in the dark, but my arm is a dead weight, pinned to the earth by a thousand rusted nails. A groan tears through my chest, vibrating against my ribs, and the pain follows immediately—a white-hot, jagged lightning bolt that incinerates the fog.
I force my eyes open.
The light is a clinical, unforgiving fluorescent hum. It bites into my retinas, making my head throb with a rhythmic, pulsing heat. I’m in a room that smells like bleach. A Brotherhood clinic. I’ve been here before, usually to watch someone else bleed out.
