"We will figure this out," he says quietly. "Patrick, Erin, all of it. You are not alone in this, Rosalina. Not anymore."
I nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at my hands, and I see his expression darken when he sees the blood that has started to dry on my knuckles.
"Come on," he says gently. "Let me clean these up properly."
20
ROSALINA
I barely makeit to the bathroom before I am on my knees in front of the toilet, retching violently.
Nothing comes up except bile—acidic and burning—because I haven’t been able to keep anything down all morning. Not the toast Dante insisted I try to eat. Not the water Gabriel forced into my hands. Not even the plain crackers Luca snuck into my purse with a wink and a "just in case, Fiorella."
My stomach heaves again, and I grip the cold porcelain with shaking hands, my bandaged knuckles—still healing from my incident in the gym two weeks ago—protesting the pressure.
Two weeks since Patrick cornered me in Seamus's office.
Two weeks since Gabriel fucked the confession out of me against the gym wall.
Two weeks since we told Dante and Luca everything, and they promised we would figure this out together.
Except we have not figured anything out.
Patrick has been silent. No calls, no messages, no demands for information. Just silence that feels more threatening than any explicit threat could be. And Erin is still not answering her phone, which means I have no way to warn her, no way to make sure she is actually safe, no way to know if Patrick was bluffing about knowing where she is.
And now I am throwing up in the bathroom of the O'Connor estate on the day of Seamus's funeral, and everything is falling apart.
I spit into the toilet, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and force myself to stand on legs that feel like jelly. The mirror shows me exactly what I expect—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hair coming loose from the bun I carefully styled this morning. I look like death, which feels appropriate for a funeral.
I rinse my mouth, reapply lipstick with trembling hands, and try to make myself presentable enough to go back out there and face everyone.
A soft knock on the door makes me freeze.
"Lina?" Luca's voice, gentle and concerned. "You okay in there?"
"Fine," I call back, and my voice only shakes a little. "Just needed a minute."
"Can I come in?"
I unlock the door, and he slips inside, closing it quietly behind him. He takes one look at my face and his expression shifts from concern to something softer, sadder.
"You threw up again," he says. It is not a question.
"Third time today," I admit, leaning back against the sink. "I can’t keep anything down."
"Stress," he says, moving closer and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Your body is trying to process too much."
"I know." I close my eyes, letting myself lean into him for just a moment. "I just need to get through today. The funeral. Then we can leave and I can fall apart in private."
"You don’t have to wait until we leave to fall apart," Luca says gently. "You can fall apart right now and I will hold you together."
The offer makes my throat tight, makes fresh tears threaten, but I force them back. "If I fall apart now, I won’t be able to put myself back together in time for the funeral. So I need to hold on just a little longer."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. But I am staying close. If you need me, you just look at me and I will get you out of there. Understood?"
"Understood," I whisper.
