They don't.
Nothing matters.
Giovanni is dead.
I'm crying so hard I can't breathe—my lungs doing that hiccuping thing where your body forgets how oxygen works.
I never told him. Never said the words that mattered. Never got to explain that I chose him, not because he broke me, but because he saw every broken piece and kept them anyway.
I'm curled into Lorcan like he's a life raft, but life rafts are for people who plan to survive.
I don't want to survive this.
How do you survive the death of the man who rewired your entire nervous system? The man who taught you that submission could feel like safety?
Lorcan's saying something soft in Irish.
It can't fix this.
Nothing can.
The security gate alert makes my entire body jump.
Lorcan goes rigid against me. His body shifts from comforting to tactical in half a heartbeat—the kind of shift thatsaysthreat assessment in progress. He pulls away carefully, like I'm made of glass that might shatter if he moves too fast.
I don't care who's at the gate. Could be the LaRiccias coming to finish the job. Could be the Grim Reaper himself. Doesn't matter.
Lorcan crosses to the security panel, keys open the camera feed and intercom. I watch him freeze.
He presses a button that must open the gate, then opens the front door and waits on the threshold. A few moments later, Jino walks through.
His eyes find me immediately.
I'm up before I decide to move, my body operating on autopilot. I crash into his chest, and the floodgates open all over again. Crying harder now becauseJino is here, which means it's real. It's not a nightmare I can wake up from.
"He's dead," I choke out against Jino's shirt, fisting my hands in the fabric. "Is it true? Tell me it's not true?—"
"Wait." Jino's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp and confused. His hands grip my shoulders, holding me at arm's length so he can see my face. "Who's dead?"
I blink up at him through tears, my brain short-circuiting.
Lorcan and I look at each other.
"Giovanni turned himself in to Luca LaRiccia," Lorcan says, his voice steady despite the devastation bleeding through his eyes.
Jino's face goes completely blank.
Lorcan continues, his voice steady, but his hands are shaking. "My Uncle Fearghus got word from New York a few hours ago. Giovanni drove to the LaRiccia compound in Little Italy. He threatened them, or something. Fearghus wasn't clear. Only that the guards pulled him out of his Lamborghini by the throat. Giovanni hit the ground hard. They dragged his body inside the building. Took his car." He pauses. "They think he'sdead, Jino. It didn't look good. He was covered in blood. A head injury."
The words hit me again, sharper this time.
Pulled from his car by the throat. Hit the ground. Covered in blood.
My brain builds a movie I don't want to watch—Giovanni's face smashed against concrete, suit torn and ruined, blood matting his dark hair. Those green eyes that could silence a room—empty.
I can't breathe.
We'll never finish our poetry.
