Chapter 21
HANNAH
I'm staring at the ceiling tiles—counting them, actually, because it's better than thinking about everything else. I just start on the ones in the corner when the hospital room door slams open with enough force to rattle the walls.
Dante appears like a storm given human form, his face pale beneath his tan, his blue eyes wild with something that looks dangerously close to panic.
I freeze. Not like I was going anywhere, but holy shit. The man looks crazed.
Did Alexei tell him? Is this him angry?
"Hannah." My name comes out rough, broken. "Fuck, Hannah."
Before I can respond, before I can tell him I'm fine, he's at my bedside. Not standing over me with that careful distance he usually maintains but climbing right into the narrow hospital bed with me, gathering me against his chest like he needs the contact to confirm I'm real and alive.
"I'm okay," I say, though my voice comes out muffled against his shirt. "Dante, I'm okay."
His arms tighten around me. I feel him shaking. Actually shaking, this man who took a bullet and pretended like he got scraped was trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"Alexei called," he says into my hair. "Said you fell down the stairs. That you were bleeding. That—"
He doesn't finish, but I hear what he's not saying. That he thought he'd lost me. That for however long it took him to get here, he was reliving Katya's death, imagining another woman he cares about dying because of his world.
"I'm fine," I repeat, letting my hands come up to rest against his chest. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palms. "Just clumsy. I got dizzy and missed the banister."
"You could have died."
"But I didn't."
"You could have." His voice cracks on the words. "Hannah, when Alexei called, when he said you were hurt, I—"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and what I see in his face makes my breath catch. Raw fear barely contained. The kind of vulnerability he never shows anyone.
"I should have been there," he says. "I never should have left. If I'd been home—"
"It wouldn't have made a difference." I reach up to touch his face, my fingers gentle against the sharp line of his jaw. "Dante, accidents happen. It's not your fault."
"Everything is my fault." The words are bitter, self-condemning. "You're in danger because of me. Because I brought you into this world, because I can't let you go, because I'm selfish enough to keep you here even though it's destroying you."
The honesty in his confession steals my breath. "You're not destroying me."
"Aren't I?" His thumb traces the bandage on my head with heartbreaking gentleness. "Look at you. Hurt, trapped, kept away from your family. How is that not destruction?"
I don't have a good answer for that. Because he's right—I am trapped, and it is destroying parts of who I used to be. But it's also building something new, something I'm not sure I want to name.
"Can you take me home?" I ask instead of trying to explain the complicated tangle of my feelings.
"The doctor wants to keep you overnight. Observation for the concussion."
"I don't want to stay here." The hospital room feels too exposed. I’ve gotten used to living within the insulated walls of his compound. "Please. I just want to go home."
I realize too late that I called his estate home, that somewhere in the past weeks it's become more familiar than my own apartment in Chicago. The acknowledgment should terrify me, but I'm too tired to examine what it means.
"I don't want to," he says quietly.
"What?"
"I don't want to take you home." His arms tighten around me again. "I want to keep you here where there are doctors and nurses and monitors that will tell me if something goes wrong. I want to know that you're safe."
The raw need in his voice undoes me. "Dante—"
"But I will," he continues. "Because you're asking me to. Because what you want matters more than what I need."
The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications. This is as close as he's come to saying he loves me, and we both know it.
"What about Mila?" I ask, changing the subject because I can't handle the intensity of this moment. "She was crying when I left. Is she okay?"
"She's fine. Maria is with her. I told her you had a little accident, but you'd be home soon." His hand strokes my hair, careful to avoid the injury. "She made you a get-well card. Drew about a hundred flowers on it."
Despite everything, I smile. "Of course she did."
"She loves you." It's not a question. "My daughter has fallen in love with you."
"I love her too."
The words slip out before I can stop them. I feel Dante go very still against me. Because we both know I'm not just talking about Mila. We both know the admission extends to him too, whether I'm ready to say it explicitly or not.
"Hannah," he starts, but I cut him off.
"Where were you?" The question I've been avoiding. "When Alexei called. Where were you?"
His expression closes off slightly, protective shields sliding back into place. "New York. Meeting with the council of elders."
"About my father?"
A pause. "Among other things."
"And?" My heart is pounding now, dread pooling in my stomach. "Did you tell them he's innocent? Did you show them the evidence I found?"
"The council believes your father is guilty." His voice is carefully neutral. "They want justice."
"Justice." I pull away from him, suddenly cold. "You mean they want him dead."
"Hannah—"
"You told them about the discrepancies, right? About how the evidence doesn't add up? About how someone is clearly framing him?"
"I told them I was conducting further investigation."
"And?"
"And they gave me two weeks to resolve the situation." His jaw tightens. "After that, they'll resolve it themselves."
The words feel like a physical assault. Two weeks. My father has two weeks to live unless I can prove his innocence, and Dante just sat in a room with people who want him dead and didn't fight for him.
"You didn't defend him." The realization makes me sick. "You sat there and let them condemn an innocent man."
"I bought him time—"
"Time for what? To dig his own grave?" I push at his chest, needing distance. "Get off me."
"Hannah, you don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." I'm crying now, angry tears that burn tracks down my face. "You're going to let them kill my father because it's easier than admitting you were wrong. Because it's easier than standing up to your precious elders."
"That's not what's happening—"
"Then what is happening?" I demand. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you care more about your position than about the truth."
“If I have to sacrifice your father's life to keep you safe, I'll do it."
The brutal honesty of the admission steals my breath. "You can't mean that."
"I can and I do." His eyes are hard now, the vulnerable man from moments ago replaced by the pakhan who makes impossible choices. "Someone has to pay for the crime. I can keep you safe, but your father has to pay. They will come for both of you. I’m playing a dangerous game, Hannah. Let me handle this.”
"You're insane." I'm shaking now, fury and fear and heartbreak all tangled together. "You're actually insane if you think I'd want to live knowing my father died because of me."
"You'd learn to live with it." His voice is flat, final. "People learn to live with worse."
I stare at him, this man I've been falling in love with, and see the monster everyone warns about. The man that decides who lives and dies based on his own personal hierarchy of importance.
"I was wrong about you," I whisper.
Something flickers in his expression—hurt, maybe. "Hannah—"
"I thought you were two different people. The brutal mob boss and the loving father. But you're not.” I shake my head, scolding myself for buying into the fantasy I spun in my mind. "You're just one person. And that person is someone I can't love."
He leans down, capturing my face in his hands, and kisses me. It's not gentle or asking permission—it's claiming, desperate, like he's trying to prove something to both of us.
"It's going to be okay," he says against my lips. "I'll take care of you. I'll fix this."
"No." I pull away, my voice hard. "I don't want you to take care of me. I don't want to be in your life. I want to go home. To my real home. My apartment, my job, my life. I want my family—not yours."
I watch him absorb my declaration. He climbs out of my bed and steps away. That cold mask I’m used to seeing is back in place.
I hate that I hurt him, but I hate that he’s going to kill my father. I can’t find true evidence, but I’ve provided enough reasonable doubt.
He’s just not going to listen.
“If you kill my father, I will never forgive you.”