Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Marina
Dante collapses at my feet.
For three seconds, I don't move. Can't move. My brain short-circuits, stuck in a loop of this isn't happening, this isn't real, this is a nightmare and I'll wake up any second now.
Then I see the blood.
It pools beneath him, dark and spreading, soaking into the carpet of my hallway. The copper smell hits me and my stomach lurches.
"No. No, no, no."
I drop to my knees beside him. My hands hover over his body, shaking, useless. Where do I even start? His face is gray. Waxy. His breathing is shallow, ragged.
"Dante." I grab his shoulder, shake him. Nothing. "Dante, wake up."
He doesn't respond.
The blood keeps spreading.
I press my hand against his side where the jacket is soaked through. Warm. Too warm. It seeps between my fingers and I gag.
Think. Think. Think.
I can't call 911. I know that much. Whatever happened to him, whatever he did—hospitals mean police. Police mean questions. Questions mean the Sartori family.
And the Sartori family means—
I shove that thought away. Focus.
He's too heavy. I try to hook my arms under his shoulders, try to drag him inside, but he's dead weight. Two hundred pounds of muscle and bone and I can barely shift him an inch.
"Come on." My voice cracks. "Come on, you bastard, help me."
Nothing.
A door opens somewhere down the hall.
My heart stops.
Footsteps. Someone walking toward the stairs. Mrs. Patterson from 4A, probably. She takes her dog out every night at this time.
I flatten myself against Dante's body, trying to shield the blood from view. Trying to look like anything other than what this is.
The footsteps pass. Fade. A door closes.
I exhale.
But my hands won't stop shaking. My whole body is trembling now, that familiar feeling crawling up my spine. The one that comes before everything falls apart.
Not now. Please, not now.
I look at Dante's face. At the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark stubble, the scar through his eyebrow. He looks younger like this. Vulnerable. Nothing like the man who threw me over his shoulder two years ago. Nothing like the enforcer who sat at my hospital bed for days.
He came here.
Of all the places he could have gone, he came here.
I don't have time to think about what that means.
"Stay here," I whisper, which is stupid because he's unconscious and couldn't go anywhere if he tried. But I say it anyway. "Don't you dare die in my hallway."
I scramble to my feet. Rush inside.
I yank open the cabinet above the fridge. My hands close around a bottle of whiskey. A gift from a coworker I never opened. I grab it, grab a dish towel, and run back to the door.
He hasn't moved.
The blood has spread further.
I kneel beside him again, uncap the whiskey with my teeth. The smell burns my nostrils.
"Okay." I pour some onto the towel. "Okay, this is going to work. This has to work."
I press the soaked cloth against his face. His neck. Under his nose.
Nothing.
"Come on." I slap his cheek lightly. Then harder. "Wake up. Dante, wake up."
His eyelids flutter.
My heart lurches.
"That's it." I pour more whiskey on the towel, hold it under his nose. "Come back. I need you to come back."
A groan. Low, pained.
His eyes open.
For a moment, they're unfocused. Glassy. He stares at the ceiling like he doesn't know where he is.
Then his gaze finds mine.
"Marina." My name comes out broken. Barely a whisper.
"Can you hear me?" I lean closer, searching his face. "Dante, can you hear me?"
He nods. Barely. Just a slight dip of his chin, but it's enough.
"Good. Okay." I wipe my hands on my jeans, leaving dark smears. "You need to help me get you inside. Can you do that?"
Another nod.
"You have to stay awake. Just for a few minutes. Just until we're inside. Do you understand?"
His eyes hold mine.
"Yes." The word is barely audible.
"Okay." I hook my arm under his shoulder, brace myself. "On three. One, two—"
He tries to rise.
His body lifts maybe two inches before his arms give out. He crashes back down with a grunt that sounds like it's ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Fuck." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Can't."
"Yes, you can." I adjust my grip, pull harder. "Come on. However you can. Crawl if you have to. Just move."
He opens his eyes. Looks at me like I've lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
"Move," I repeat. "Now."
Something shifts in his expression. That stubborn set to his jaw I remember from before. From the compound. From the hospital.
He plants his palm on the floor. Pushes.
This time, he makes it to his knees.
I duck under his arm, take as much of his weight as I can. My shoulder screams in protest. He's too heavy. Too big. But I lock my knees and hold on.
"Good. That's good. Keep going."
We move.
It's not walking. It's not even crawling, really. It's something in between—a lurching, stumbling shuffle that leaves bloody handprints on the floor. His breathing is ragged. Mine isn't much better.
The hallway stretches forever.
Ten feet to the living room. Another fifteen to the bedroom. It might as well be a mile.
"Stay with me." I tighten my grip on his waist. "Don't you dare pass out again."
"Trying." His voice is strained. Thin.
We make it past the couch. Past the kitchen doorway. His feet drag against the hardwood, leaving dark streaks.
"Almost there." I don't know if I'm talking to him or myself. "Just a little further."
He stumbles. His knee hits the floor hard and I nearly go down with him.
"Get up." I pull at his arm. "Dante, get up."
He doesn't move.
"Get up!"
A sound escapes him. Something between a laugh and a groan. But he plants his hand on the wall. Pushes himself upright.
We keep moving.
The bedroom door is open. Thank God. I don't think I could manage a doorknob right now.
"The bed." I steer him toward it. "You need to lay down. Right now."
He doesn't argue. Just lets me guide him the last few feet until his knees hit the mattress.
He collapses.
"Okay." I'm talking fast now. Too fast. The words tumble out in a rush I can't control.
"Okay, you're inside. You're on the bed.
That's good. That's step one. Now I need to—I need to find a way to help you.
I need to stop the bleeding. Do you have a first aid kit?
No, that's stupid, why would you have a first aid kit, you're bleeding all over my apartment.
I need to call someone. No, I can't call anyone. I need to—"
"Marina."
His voice cuts through my spiral. Quiet. Calm.
I stop.
He's turned his head on the pillow. Looking at me with those dark eyes. They're clearer now than they were in the hallway. More focused.
"There's no need."
"What?"
"You can just..." He pauses. Swallows. "Let me die."
The words hit me like a slap.
"What did you just say?"
"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.
A deeper voice responds. Lorenzo.
More talking. Too quick for me to follow.
"Marina." Sophia's back. "Lorenzo's calling a doctor right now. Someone who can help. They'll be there as soon as possible."
"How soon?" I look toward the bedroom. "He's lost a lot of blood, Soph. I don't know how long—"
"The doctor will get there. But in the meantime, I'm putting someone else on. Her name is Kristen. She knows medical stuff. She'll tell you what to do until help arrives."
"Kristen?"
"Just trust me."
There's a shuffle. A pause.
Then a new voice. Calm. Steady. The kind of voice that sounds like it's talked people through emergencies before.
"Marina? I'm Kristen. Sophia told me what's happening. I need you to take a breath and tell me exactly what you're seeing."
I force air into my lungs. Let it out.
"He's on my bed. Unconscious. There's a wound on his left side, below his ribs."
"Okay. Is the blood flowing fast? Like a faucet? Or is it more of a slow seep?"
I walk back to the bedroom. Force myself to look at the wound instead of his face.
The blood is dark. Spreading slowly across the sheets. But not gushing. Not pulsing.
"Slow," I say. "It's slow. Dark red, not bright."
"Good. That's actually good news." Kristen's voice stays even. "If it was arterial, it would be bright red and pumping. Dark and slow means it's probably venous. He's not great, but he's not as bad as he could be."
"So he's not dying?"
"Not immediately. But we need to keep it that way. Do you have clean towels? Sheets? Anything you can use to apply pressure?"
"Yes."
"Get them. Fold them into a thick pad and press it against the wound. Firm pressure. Don't let up."
I grab a towel from the bathroom. Fold it like she says. Press it against Dante's side.
He doesn't react.
"I'm doing it," I tell her. "What else?"
"Keep his legs elevated if you can. Pillows under his knees. It helps with blood flow to his vital organs."
I let the wound and wedge pillows under his legs, then I put the towel on the wound again keeping pressure.
"Done."
"Good. Now check his breathing. Is his chest rising and falling steadily?"
I watch. Count.
"Yes. Steady. Maybe a little shallow, but steady."
"That's good. Really good." I hear Kristen exhale. "You're doing great, Marina. Just keep the pressure on and keep him warm. Do you have a blanket?"
"On the bed."
"Pull it over him. Not over the wound, but over the rest of him. Shock can drop body temperature fast."
I tug the blanket up to his chest. His skin is pale. Clammy. But he's breathing.
"How long until the doctor gets here?" I ask.
"Lorenzo said soon. They're sending someone local. Just keep doing what you're doing."
Minutes pass.
I don't know how many. Five. Maybe ten.
My arm aches from holding pressure. My right hand cramps twice and I have to switch to my left. The towel under my palm is soaked through. I grab another one. Keep pressing.
Kristen stays on the line. Asks me questions. Keeps me focused.
"His color?"
"Still pale."
"Breathing?"
"Still steady."
"You're doing great. Just a little longer."
The buzzer sounds.
I jump so hard I nearly drop the phone.
"Someone's here," I say.
"That's probably the doctor."
I press the towel harder against Dante's side, then realize I can't hold it and answer the door at the same time.
"I have to let go of the wound."
"It's okay. Just for a minute. Go."
I run to the intercom. Press the button.
"Who is it?"
"Dr. Marchetti." A man's voice. Accented. Professional. "Lorenzo Sartori sent me."
Relief floods through me so fast my knees nearly buckle.
"Fourth floor," I say. "Apartment 4B."
I buzz him in.
"The doctor's here," I tell Kristen. "He's coming up."
"Good. You did good, Marina. Really."
"Thank you." My voice breaks on the words. "Tell Sophia—tell her thank you."
"I will."
I hang up.
Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.
A knock at the door.
I open it.