Page 231 of Ricardo

Mario’s face hardens.

Lorenzo adds, “Police are on scene. We left before engaging. Edoardo has someone close enough to listen. He’s being updated.”

Mario nods once.

“Rusk?” he asks.

“Handled for now.”

“What did he give?”

“Enough to know Calhoun was testing us and trying to figure out who blocked his access. We will discuss that later.”

Mario’s gaze flicks toward Julia.

He understands at once.

Because Julia is the one who blocked his access, and she is covered in Dante’s blood, and the conversation we need to have will not happen over her head while she is shaking in a hospital chair.

More footsteps.

Alessio, who had been parking the car, arrives, along with Edoardo. Matteo and Tomasso come from the opposite hall seconds after, moving fast but not running.

Matteo looks at Julia first, and his eyes widen at the sight of the blood.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes,” I say.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Tomasso turns away, one hand over his mouth, then drops it and looks back toward the doors that lead back.

Alessio mutters something in Italian under his breath. Edoardo grips the back of a chair hard enough that his knuckles whiten.

Diego arrives last, which means he must have stayed behind to move whatever needed moving before he came. The charm is gone from him completely. He takes in the waiting room, the blood, Julia, Mario, me, then looks toward the doors.

“Tell me,” he says.

Lorenzo does.

Diego walks to the wall and presses both hands flat against it, head lowering for one second before he pushes himself upright again.

No one speaks for a moment.

The Contis are not built for rooms like this.

We know what to do with enemies. With money. With blood that we’ve spilled. We know how to move men, silence stories, burn threats to ash and call it business.

We do not know what to do when one of our own is in surgery behind a closed door.

Mario stands with Victoria tucked against his side now, his arm around her shoulders. Lorenzo speaks quietly to Matteo. Tomasso paces—three steps in one direction, then three steps in another. Diego stares at nothing. Edoardo and Alessio stand near the hall like guards without a post.

Julia sits in the middle of it all, still in the green dress, covered in my son’s lifeblood.

I sit beside her.

Not because I can comfort her.