Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Dante
Darkness.
Then pain.
The pain comes first. A dull, throbbing ache that radiates from my left side. Spreads through my ribs. My back. My chest.
I know this feeling.
Been shot before. Stabbed twice. Broken more bones than I can count.
But this—this is different.
This feels like someone reached inside me and rearranged my organs with a hot poker.
I try to breathe.
Bad idea.
The pain sharpens. Becomes a blade instead of a bruise. I grit my teeth. Force myself to take shallow breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Slow.
Controlled.
The way I learned to do it years ago. When pain was just another thing to manage. Another obstacle between me and whatever needed to be done.
My eyes are closed.
I don't remember closing them.
I don't remember much of anything.
Fragments. Pieces. Like a film reel that's been cut and spliced back together wrong.
Webb's office. The hired muscle. The gun.
The bullet.
Christ. The bullet.
I remember the impact.
I remember the ride. The Ducati. Denver streets blurring past. Blood soaking through my shirt. Through my jacket. Dripping onto the tank.
I remember—
Her door.
Marina's door.
I remember climbing those stairs. Four flights. Each step a negotiation with my own body. Each landing a small victory.
I remember knocking.
I remember her voice.
I remember—
Nothing.
After that, nothing.
Where am I?
I force my eyes open.
The room is dark. Not completely dark. There's light coming from somewhere. A door. Slightly open. A thin strip of yellow cutting across the floor.
I blink.
Try to focus.
Ceiling above me. White. Plain. A small crack running from one corner toward the center.
Not my ceiling.
Not my apartment.
Not the penthouse in Chicago with its floor-to-ceiling windows and its view of the river and its panic room behind the bookshelf.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere—
The smell hits me.
Lavender.
Faint. Underneath the sharper scents of antiseptic and blood and sweat.
But there.
Lavender.
Her.
It comes back in a rush.
Marina's apartment. Marina's door. Marina's face when she opened it and found me bleeding on her doorstep.
The look in her eyes.
Horror. Anger. Something else I couldn't name.
She let me in.
I need to get up.
The thought is automatic. Instinctive. I can't stay here. Can't put her in danger. Can't drag her back into a world she fought so hard to escape.
I need to leave.
Now.
I try to push myself up.
My arms shake. My core screams. The pain in my side explodes into something white-hot and blinding.
I don't care.
I've worked through worse.
I plant my palms against the mattress. Push.
Get maybe two inches off the pillow before my body gives out.
Fuck.
Try again.
This time I make it further. Three inches. Four. My abs are on fire. My side feels like it's being torn open all over again.
But I'm moving.
I'm—
A hand lands on my chest.
Firm. Flat. Pressing me back down.
"You're not going to move."
Her voice.
Low. Hard. Brooking no argument.
I freeze.
My eyes find her in the darkness.
The light from the door catches the edges of her face. The line of her jaw. The curve of her cheek.
She looks tired.
She looks angry.
She looks—
There she is.
The thought rises unbidden. The same thought I've had a thousand times over the past two years. Every time I checked the alerts. Every time I saw her name on my screen.
There she is.
"Marina."
Her name comes out rough. Broken. My throat feels like sandpaper.
"Don't."
She presses harder on my chest. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make her point.
"You're not moving. You're not getting up. You're not going anywhere."
"I need to—"
"You need to shut up and lie still."
Her hand doesn't move.
Neither do I.
"The doctor said no movement for three days. You've been unconscious for—" She pauses. Checks something. Her phone, maybe. "—six hours. That leaves sixty-six more hours before you're allowed to do anything except breathe and take your medication."
"Marina—"
"I said don't."
The anger in her voice is sharp enough to cut.
I stop talking.
She's right.
I can feel it now. The weakness in my limbs. The fog in my head. The way my body is screaming at me to stop fighting and just rest.
I'm in no condition to go anywhere.
I'm in no condition to do anything.
"Water," I manage.
Her hand leaves my chest. The absence of it feels wrong. Cold.
I hear her footsteps. Soft on carpet. Then harder on what sounds like tile.
A faucet runs.
She comes back.
A glass appears in front of my face. She doesn't help me drink it. Just holds it there. Waiting.
I reach for it.
My hand shakes.
Fuck.
I hate this. Hate being weak. Hate being dependent. Hate that she's seeing me like this.
I manage to wrap my fingers around the glass. Bring it to my lips. The water is cold. Clean. The best thing I've ever tasted.
I drain half of it before she pulls it away.
"Slow down. You'll make yourself sick."
She sets the glass on the nightstand. Sits back down in her chair.
The silence stretches between us.
Heavy. Loaded. Full of all the things neither of us is saying.
I should thank her.
I should apologize.
I should explain.
Instead, I just look at her.
She shifts in her chair.
Uncomfortable under my gaze.
"Stop looking at me like that."
I don't stop.
I can't.
Two years of knowing she was alive without actually seeing her.
And now she's here.
Right here.
Close enough to touch.
"Dante."
Her voice is sharper now. A warning.
"I said stop."
She reaches over. Flicks on the lamp beside the bed.
Light floods the room.
I blink against the sudden brightness. My eyes water. Adjust.
And then I see her.
Really see her.
She looks thinner than I remember. The softness in her cheeks is gone. Replaced by something harder. Sharper. Her hair is longer. Darker, maybe. Or maybe that's just the light.
But her eyes.
Her eyes are the same.
Blue-green. Fierce. Guarded.
Always ready for the next threat.
I did that to her.
Not directly. Not with my own hands. But I was part of the world that broke her. Part of the machine that chewed her up and spit her out and left her not being able to trust anyone.
The guilt settles in my chest like a stone.
"The doctor said you need to stay still for three days."
She's talking fast now. The words tumbling out one after another. Like she's trying to fill the silence before it swallows her whole.
"Lorenzo sent him. Dr. Marchetti. He removed the bullet. Said it missed your kidney by about an inch. You're lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."
She's not looking at me anymore.
Her eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere above my head. The wall. The ceiling. Anywhere but my face.
"You need antibiotics twice a day. Morning and night. And pain medication every six hours. I have both. The doctor left them."
Her hands are moving. Fidgeting. Picking at the hem of her shirt.
"The wound needs to be cleaned every twelve hours. He showed me how. It's not—it's not complicated. Just saline and fresh bandages. I can do it."
She's nervous.
The realization hits me like a second bullet.
Marina Reeves. The woman who slapped me across the face the first time we met. The woman who stared down Lorenzo Sartori without flinching. The woman who survived a gunshot wound and rebuilt her entire life from scratch.
She's nervous.
Because of me.
I hate myself for it.
"There are signs of infection to watch for," she continues. Her voice is getting faster. Higher. "Fever. Redness around the wound. Swelling. Discharge. If any of that happens, I'm supposed to call the doctor immediately. He left his number."
She's pacing now. Short, tight steps. Back and forth beside the bed.
"You can't eat solid food for the first twenty-four hours. Just liquids. Broth. Water. Maybe some juice if you can keep it down. After that, we can try something light. Toast. Crackers."
Her right hand curls into a fist at her side.
"Marina."
She doesn't stop.
"The doctor said the next forty-eight hours are critical. If you make it through without infection, you should be fine. Well, not fine. But alive. Functional. Able to be moved."
"Marina."
"Lorenzo's sending someone to pick you up. In forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner if you're stable enough. Sophia said—"
"Marina."
She stops.
Her eyes finally meet mine.
The fear in them makes my chest ache.
"I need to move to the couch."
She blinks.
"What?"
"The couch." I gesture vaguely toward the door. Toward the living room I barely remember seeing before I passed out. "I'll sleep there. You need your bed."
"No."
The word comes out flat. Final.
"You're not moving."
"I can't take your bed."
"You're not taking it. You're using it. Because you have a hole in your side and the doctor said no movement for three days."
"I've slept through worse."
"I don't care."
She crosses her arms over her chest. A defensive posture. A wall going up.
"You're staying in the bed. End of discussion."
"Marina—"
"I said no."
Her voice cracks on the last word.
Just slightly. Just enough for me to hear.
She's at the end of her rope.
I can see it now. The exhaustion in her face. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hands are shaking even as she tries to hide them.
She's been holding it together for hours.
And now she's breaking.
Because of me.
Christ.
I want to reach for her. Pull her close. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I never meant for any of this to happen.
But I can't.
I don't have the right.
"Okay," I say instead.
My voice is quiet. Rough.
"Okay. I'll stay."
She nods.
Once. Sharp.
Then she turns away.
"I'll come back later. To check on you. Give you your medication."
She's already moving toward the door.
"Try to sleep."
"Marina."
She pauses. Her hand on the doorframe. Her back to me.
"Thank you."
The words feel inadequate. Pathetic. A bandage on a wound that needs stitches.
But they're all I have.
She doesn't turn around.
"Don't thank me yet."
And then she's gone.