"Easier." His eyes start to drift closed. "For everyone."
"No." I grab his shoulder, shake him. "No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to show up at my door after two years and then just—just die on my bed. That's not how this works."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile.
"You can't die here." My voice cracks. "You hear me? You can't. I won't let you. You absolute asshole."
The smile spreads. Weak, but real.
"Happy to see you too, cara."
Then his eyes close.
His body goes slack.
"Dante?" I shake him again. "Dante!"
Nothing.
I stand there, staring at his unconscious face, my hands shaking so hard I can barely feel them.
Think. Think.
My phone. Where's my phone?
I pat my pockets. Empty. I left it on the kitchen counter. Before everything went to hell.
I run.
My phone is exactly where I left it. Next to my coffee mug. Next to my keys. Next to the life I had three hours ago.
I grab it. Scroll through my contacts with trembling fingers.
Sophia's name stares back at me.
We haven't talked in weeks. Every phone call felt like a doorway back to that world. Back to the compound. Back to the hospital bed and the man who sat beside it for days.
But she's married to Lorenzo Sartori. And Lorenzo will know what to do.
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings once. Twice.
"Marina?"
Sophia's voice. Warm and surprised and so familiar it makes my chest ache.
"Soph." The word comes out strangled. "I need help."
"What's wrong?" All the warmth vanishes. She's sharp now. Alert. "Where are you?"
"My apartment. Denver." I press my free hand against my forehead. "Dante's here. He's been shot. He's unconscious and there's so much blood and I don't know what to do."
Silence.
Then: "Lorenzo!"
I hear movement on the other end. Muffled voices. Sophia saying something fast in Italian.
