Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dante
Ihold her until the sobs slow.
Until her breathing evens out.
Until the shaking becomes tremors instead of convulsions.
Then I ease her back against the couch and stand.
My wound screams.
I ignore it.
I dressed while she cried. Sweatpants. Shirt.
Now I need to dress her.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
The pain is immediate. Like someone shoved a hot poker through my side.
I grit my teeth.
Focus.
"Marina." I keep my voice soft. Steady. "I'm going to dress you now. We need to move."
She doesn't respond.
Her eyes are open.
But there's nothing behind them.
Empty.
Hollow.
Like someone reached inside her and scooped out everything that made her her.
"Cazzo."
I've seen this before.
Soldiers after their first firefight. Civilians caught in crossfire. People who watched their world shatter in seconds.
Shock.
She's in shock.
I grab her shirt from the floor. The tank top she was wearing before I stripped it off her.
Before I had my mouth between her thighs.
Before someone tried to put a bullet through her window.
"Arms up, cara."
Nothing.
I lift her arms myself.
She lets me.
No resistance. No help. Just... compliance.
Like a child letting a parent dress them for school.
I slide the shirt over her head. Guide her arms through the holes. Pull it down over her stomach.
Her underwear is somewhere.
I find them near the wall.
"Stand up."
She doesn't move.
I hook my hands under her arms and lift her.
My wound tears.hurts.
Don't care.
I hold her upright with one arm. Crouch down—more pain, more blood—and guide her feet through the leg holes.
Pull the underwear up.
Her jeans are by the couch.
Same process.
Lift. Guide. Pull.
She moves when I move her.
Stops when I stop.
Says nothing.
Does nothing.
Just... exists.
I took too long.
I should have left days ago. Should have ignored the doctor's orders. Should have dragged myself out of this apartment and hunted the cartel before they could hunt us.
But I stayed.
Because of her.
Because I wanted more time.
More opportunities to pretend I could have something normal.
And now she's standing in front of me with dead eyes because I was too selfish to leave.
I grab my phone from the coffee table.
Call Lorenzo.
"Report." His voice is sharp. All business.
"Two hostiles down in the building. Three fled. Sniper across the street neutralized before he could fire." I keep my voice flat. Clinical. "Marina's in shock. We need extraction."
"Already arranged. There's a car in the alley behind the building. Black SUV. Nico's driving."
"Where are we going?"
"Safe house. Apartment on the other side of the city. You and Marina are going to be locked in until we handle this."
My jaw clenches.
Locked in.
Hiding.
"I can't stay put, Lorenzo."
"You can and you will."
"The cartel—"
"Is being handled. Nico's team is already moving. We've got eyes on three of their Denver operations. By morning, they'll know exactly what happens when they come after one of ours."
"I should be there."
"You should be recovering from a bullet wound that almost killed you three days ago." Lorenzo's voice hardens. "Until you're ready, you hide. That's not a request."
I want to yell at him.
Want to tell him I've fought through worse.
Want to remind him that I've killed men with broken ribs, with knife wounds, with bullets still lodged in my flesh.
But Marina is standing three feet away.
Staring at nothing.
Hearing everything.
If I yell, I'll scare her more.
And she's already so far gone I don't know how to bring her back.
I swallow the rage.
"How long until extraction?"
"Three minutes. Get her to the alley. Nico will handle the rest."
"And the apartment?"
"Stocked. Secure. No one knows about it except family."
"Three minutes," I say.
I hang up.
Marina hasn't moved.
Her eyes are still empty. Still staring at the wall behind me.
I step in front of her.
Block her view.
Force her to see me.
"Marina." I cup her face. Her skin is cold. Clammy. "We're leaving now. I need you to walk with me. Can you do that?"
Nothing.
"Marina."
A blink.
Slow. Delayed. Like her brain is processing on a five-second lag.
"Walk," she whispers.
Her voice is hollow.
But it's something.
"Yes." I brush my thumb across her cheek. "Walk with me. I'll keep you safe. I promise."
She doesn't respond.
But when I take her hand and pull, she follows.
One step.
Then another.
Her movements are mechanical. Robotic. Like someone programmed her to put one foot in front of the other but forgot to install the rest.
I guide her toward the broken door.
The hallway is empty.
Blood on the carpet near the stairwell.
I don't let her look.
"Eyes on me," I say. "Just me."
She obeys.
We move.
Marina
His hand is warm.
That's the first thing I notice.
Warm and solid and real.
Everything else feels like static. Like someone turned the volume down on the world and left me floating in the silence.
But his hand is warm.
I hold onto that.
We're walking.
I know we're walking because my feet are moving. Because the floor changes from carpet to concrete. Because the air shifts from stale apartment to cold night.
But I'm not really here.
I'm somewhere else.
Somewhere safe.
Think of something good.
The voice in my head sounds like my mother. Like the woman who used to sit on the edge of my bed when I had nightmares and stroke my hair until I fell back asleep.
When things get bad, think of something good. Something you're looking forward to. Something that makes you happy.
I've been doing this since I was six years old.
Bad day at school? Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow Sarah will share her cookies at lunch and we'll play on the swings and everything will be fine.
Failed a test? Next week I'll study harder. Next week I'll get an A and my parents will put it on the fridge and I'll feel proud.
Got my heart broken in college? Someday I'll meet someone who loves me. Someday I'll have a house with a garden and a dog and a life that makes sense.
The future was always my escape.
The promise of better was always enough to get me through.
But right now, I can't see the future.
Right now, all I can see is blood on carpet and shattered glass and the empty space where a bullet would have gone through my skull if someone hadn't stopped it.
"Marina."
Dante's voice cuts through the static.
I blink.
We're in a stairwell.
Going down.
His arm is around my waist, half-carrying me because my legs aren't working right.
"Stay with me," he says. "Talk to me."
Talk.
Talk about what?
My mouth opens.
"When I was eight," I hear myself say, "I wanted to be a marine biologist."
The words come out flat. Disconnected. Like someone else is speaking and I'm just watching.
But Dante doesn't stop walking.
Doesn't tell me to be quiet.
"Marine biologist," he repeats. "Why?"
"I saw a documentary about dolphins." My voice sounds far away. "They were so... free. Swimming in the ocean. No walls. No cages. Just endless blue."
We reach a landing.
Turn.
Keep going down.
"Did you ever swim with dolphins?" Dante asks.
"No." I shake my head. The movement feels strange. Delayed. "I was scared of the ocean. Isn't that funny? I wanted to study it, but I was terrified of it."
"What scared you?"
"The depth." I stare at the concrete steps passing under my feet. "Not knowing what was underneath. All that darkness below the surface."
Dante's grip tightens on my waist.
"What happened to the marine biologist dream?"
"I grew up." A sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh. "I realized I was better at art than science. My mom said I could still paint dolphins if I wanted."
"Did you?"
"Once. For a class project in high school. I painted a dolphin jumping out of the water at sunset. My teacher said it was technically proficient but emotionally distant."
We reach another landing.
The air is getting colder.
"Emotionally distant," Dante repeats. "What does that mean?"
"It means I painted what I saw, not what I felt." I swallow. My throat is dry. "I was good at copying things. Bad at feeling them."
"I don't believe that."
"It's true." My feet keep moving. One step. Another. "I spent my whole childhood thinking about the future. Planning for it. Dreaming about it. But I never really lived in the present. I was always somewhere else."
Dante pushes open a door.
Cold air hits my face.
We're outside.
An alley.
Dark except for a single light above a dumpster.
A black SUV waits at the end.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
"Keep talking," Dante says. "What else did you dream about?"
I try to focus.
Try to pull another memory from the fog.
"When I was twelve, I wanted to be a fashion designer." The words come easier now. "I used to sketch dresses in my notebooks during math class. My teacher caught me once and made me show the whole class."
"Were they good?"
"They were terrible." This time, something almost like a smile tugs at my mouth. "I drew women with necks like giraffes and arms like spaghetti. But I thought they were beautiful."
We're walking toward the SUV.
Dante's pace is steady.
Patient.
Like we have all the time in the world.
"What happened to fashion design?"
"I realized I didn't actually want to make clothes. I just wanted to draw pretty things." I take a breath. The cold air burns my lungs. "So I switched to art. Painting. Sculpture. Anything that let me create without having to be practical."
"That's why you work at the nonprofit."
"Yes." I nod. "I teach kids to make art. To express themselves. To feel things and put them on paper instead of keeping them locked inside."
The SUV is twenty feet away.
Fifteen.
Ten.
"Do you still dream about the future?" Dante asks.
The question stops me.
Not physically.
My feet keep moving.
But something inside me pauses.
Do I?
Two years ago, I had dreams.
A career. A family. A life that made sense.
Then Daniil happened.
Then the shooting.
Then the hospital and the nerve damage and the two years of pretending I was fine.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I used to think about the future all the time. It was how I survived bad days. I'd tell myself tomorrow would be better. Next week would be better. Next year would be better."
"And now?"
"Now I can't see past tonight."
We reach the SUV.
The back door opens.
Dante helps me into the back seat.
I slide across the leather.
He follows.
Closes the door.
The interior is warm.
Dark.
Safe.
"Marina." Dante's voice is close. Right next to my ear. "Look at me."
I turn my head.
His face is inches from mine.
Those dark eyes. That sharp jaw. The stubble that's grown thicker over the past few days.
"You don't have to see past tonight," he says. "You just have to get through it. And I'm going to help you. Okay?"
I stare at him.
At this man who killed his way into my life.
Who tracked me for two years.
Who showed up bleeding at my door and turned everything upside down.
"Okay," I whisper.
The SUV pulls forward.
We drive into the night.