Matteo looks at me, then at Gia, and nods. They file out, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.
Gia finally turns around. She looks at me, and there’s a vulnerability in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. It’s not the sassy heiress or the stubborn brat. It’s a girl who just watched the only man who ever protected her almost die.
"You should sleep, Rafael," she says, her voice trembling.
"Come here," I command, reaching out with my good hand.
She hesitates, then walks to the bedside. I grab her hand, pulling her down until she’s forced to sit on the edge of the mattress. I don't care about the tubes or the monitor. I just need to feel the heat of her.
"Why did you do it?" she whispers, her thumb grazing the back of my hand. "You didn't have to jump. You could have stayed behind the door. You could have let the glass take the hit."
"I don't play 'could have,' Gia." I pull her hand up to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. My skin is pale, hers is smudged with my blood. "I saw the rifle move. I saw the target. There wasn't a choice."
"There's always a choice."
"Not for me." I look deep into her eyes, searching for the truth.
She’s the only thing that matters.
She leans down, her forehead resting against mine. I can feel her breath, warm and uneven, on my lips. For a second, the pain in my shoulder disappears. The O'Rourkes disappear. The leak, the betrayal, the 'Ghost'—it all fades into the background.
"Don't do it again," she breathes.
"I can't promise that."
"Rafael—"
"Right now... you’re the one thing that belongs to me."
I fall back into the fog, but this time, the grey isn't suffocating. It’s warm. Because I’m still holding her hand, and for the first time in I don’t know how long, I’m not afraid of the dark.
I’m just afraid of what happens when I have to let go.
CHAPTER 29
RAFAEL
I’m going to put a bullet through someone's skull.
It’s been four days since they discharged me from the clinic and hauled my half-dead ass back to the estate, and if I have to spend one more hour staring at the crown molding of this bedroom, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. My left arm is strapped to my chest in a sling that feels like a medieval torture device, my shoulder is a pulsing crater of white-hot agony, and I haven't had a decent glass of scotch in a week.
"Mr. Caruso, it’s time for your?—"
"Get the fuck out!" I roar, the sound tearing through my throat.
The nurse flinches and takes a step back, holding a plastic tray of pills and a blood pressure cuff. "The doctor was very clear about the schedule, sir."
"The doctor isn't the one lying in this bed like a fucking invalid. I don’t want the pills. I don’t want the cuff. I want you to leave before I find a way to fire you with my good hand."
"Rafael? What is going on? I could hear you from the hallway."
The door swings open, and the air in the room shifts. The sharp, antiseptic smell of the bandages is suddenly cut by jasmine and amber. Gia walks in, looking far too composed for someone who’s spent the last week dealing with a man the staff has started calling 'The Beast of the East Wing.'
She’s wearing a simple slip dress that makes my heart do a slow, painful thud against my ribs. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and she’s carrying a tray of her own.
"He’s being difficult again, isn't he, Margaret?" Gia asks, her voice light, almost conversational.
"He's refusing his medication, Mrs. Caruso," the nurse says, her tone suggesting she’d rather be anywhere else.
