And somewhere inside those memories… Soft hands touched my face. Not my father’s. Chiara’s.
“Leo,” she whispered shakily. “Please wake up.”
Hallucination. Had to be. Because Chiara Ventura hated me. Didn’t she?
I forced my eyes open. The room swam in and out of focus slowly. Warm golden light spilled through the penthouse windows. Rain hammered faintly against the glass outside.
Chiara sat beside me on the bed. Actually sat there. Her knees tucked beneath her while one hand pressed a cold cloth against my forehead. Her blonde hair looked messy, tangled from hours of panic. Tear tracks still stained her cheeks. She looked exhausted. Destroyed. Beautiful.
“You’re real?” I asked hoarsely. Her face crumpled.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
I tried sitting up. Agony ripped through my side violently enough that black spots exploded across my vision. “Jesus fucking Christ…”
“Don’t move!” Chiara cried, pressing both hands against my chest. “Leo, stop!”
I froze. Not because of the pain. Because she was touching me willingly. Her palms flattened against my bare chest while panic flooded her face. I could feel how badly her hands trembled.
“Medic said the poison almost reached your heart,” she whispered shakily. “You lost consciousness three times.”
I stared at her. The words barely registered. Because she looked terrified. For me.
“You stayed,” I said quietly. Something flickered across her face. Then her eyes filled with tears again.
“Of course I stayed,” she whispered.
Hallucination. Definitely hallucination. The poison was making me delirious. I laughed weakly and regretted it when pain sliced through my ribs again.
Chiara looked horrified. “Don’t laugh!”
“You hate me,” I murmured.
“I do not,” she said.
I looked at her properly then. At the way she sat beside me in my shirt. At the dark circles beneath her eyes. At the dried blood still staining her fingers from trying to help stop the bleeding earlier. She looked like she’d been dragged through hell. And still she stayed.
“Interesting,” I muttered.
“You almost died,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” I managed.
“You almost died because of me.”
That finally dragged my attention sharply back to her. “No.”
“Yes!” Her voice cracked apart. “I ran straight into their trap. Angelo used me and…”
“Chiara,” I said, the warning clear in my voice. She stopped. I lifted my hand slowly despite how heavy it felt and touched her jaw weakly with bloodstained fingers. “You ran to me. That’s all I remember.”
Something broke in her expression then. Completely. A sob escaped her before she could stop it. And she leaned forward hard enough that her forehead pressed against my chest while she cried.
I froze.
My brain genuinely stopped functioning for a second. Because Chiara Ventura was curled against me voluntarily. Crying into my skin. Holding onto me like she couldn’t bear not to.
Hallucination. Absolutely a hallucination. My hand slid shakily into her hair anyway. Soft. God, she was soft.
