Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FINA
Horrified, I stare down at his crumpled form.
If I don’t do something, he’ll bleed out.
I rip off my sweater and place it over his chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. “Asshole. Drunk fool,” I mutter, pressing down on the wound. “Did you move to Rome just to torment me? Are you dead set on ruining my life?”
Blood soaks through the fabric, but it’s slowing. He doesn’t stir. A slight push confirms what I feared—he’s completely out.
Too heavy to move. Too pale. Too still.
My chest tightens.
I fumble for my phone and call Bianca, my fingers slipping against the screen.
“What the hell, Fina. It’s early—”
“I’ll explain later. Please, I need Dante’s number.”
There’s a pause, and I close my eyes, silently begging her not to say she deleted it.
“Are you in trouble?” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She sucks in a breath. “Okay. I’ll text it. But be careful how—”
I hang up before she finishes. No time.
Dante answers on the first ring. “Who is this?”
“Renzo’s been shot. He’s in the alley behind La Vita Nera. He’s unconscious … bleeding.”
Silence. I hear nothing but the ringing in my own ears.
I should run. I should disappear. But I can’t. I won’t.
Instead, I sit on the cold stone and lift Renzo’s head onto my lap. My heart pounds as I gaze down at him. He looks heartbreakingly peaceful, even in this state. Even on death’s doorstep, he’s too damn beautiful for his own good.
“Don’t you die on me,” I whisper, smoothing his hair back with shaking fingers. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
I say it again, and again, desperate for the words to pull him back.
“You hear me, Renzo?” My voice cracks. “I don’t care how infuriating you are or how angry I am. You don’t get to die tonight.”
I keep whispering to him, brushing blood off his temple, until a voice slices through the shadows.
“What in God’s name—”
I freeze.
Dante.
Fear surges up my spine.
“You.”
I blink as men rush me, lifting Renzo from my lap.
“Careful!” I snap, jumping to my feet. “You’ll hurt him even more.”
They don’t listen.
I try to follow, but Dante grabs my arm, halting me.
“Not so fast. What happened?”
“Massimo Grassi’s men attacked him.”
His expression sharpens. “Grassi?”
“He believes the famiglie—the Eleven—murdered his father.”
“What?” Dante curses under his breath and pulls out his phone, typing.
“Can’t you do that later?” I say, exasperated and needing him to hear me out.
He glares but doesn’t stop.
“Grassi wants a meeting with Renzo.”
He halts his typing. “A meeting?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he growls, his usual calm edge splintering. “Why would his men shoot him if that were the case?”
Oh Lord. Deliver me from evil.
“Answer me.”
My heart hammers. My legs threaten to give out.
“I shot him.”
Silence crashes over us.
Then, like a dam breaking, I confess everything. How I’ve been following Renzo. The sightseeing. Stumbling upon him tonight. Interrupting Grassi’s men. My failed attempt at saving him.
How his stupid ass threw himself in front of the bullet like he has a death wish.
By the time I’m done, I’m breathless and shaking.
Dante watches me closely. Not blinking. Not moving.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Please, it was an accident. The man had a knife. I didn’t expect Renzo to—” My voice falters. “I didn’t think he’d protect them.”
I toss my hands up, trying to make sense of what’s impossible to make sense of.
Dante’s expression suggests he’s doing the same.
“I’m Bianca’s friend. Hopefully that’s reason enough to keep me alive.”
He steps forward.
I step back.
His sigh is long, sharp with frustration as he moves past me.
“If he lives, you live,” he says over his shoulder. “But understand this: You can run, but you can never hide. You of all people should understand that.”
He stops.
The air tightens, charged with the weight of something inevitable.
He turns, enough for me to catch the cold, merciless glint in his eyes.
“Isn’t that right, Elia?”
RENZO
“Relax, and let the painkillers do their job.”
My eyes snap open. The doctor on our payroll stands over me, needle in hand, smiling encouragingly at me.
“What did you say?” I croak, my words heavy.
“You’ll feel more comfortable in a few minutes.”
I try to sit up and take a swing at him. Pain shoots through my shoulder. He’s got me on Dante’s desk, shirt sliced open, pants shoved halfway down my legs.
“Mr. Beneventi, easy,” the doctor admonishes. “I cleaned the wound, but still need to stitch you up.”
“Dante!” I bellow, furious. So spitting mad I see red.
He walks in midcall, phone pressed to his ear.
“Hang up,” I growl.
He disconnects, his eyes snapping from the doctor to me. “He tell you you’re a lucky bastard? The bullet passed through your upper pectoral muscle, right below your collarbone, missing a major artery, veins, and the apex of your lung?”
“Fuck the medical jabber.” I wave a finger at the doctor. “This motherfucker drugged me.”
Dante looks as alarmed as I feel. “What kind? How much?”
The doctor’s voice quivers. “Ten milligrams of oxycodone.”
I swing my legs off the desk and yank my pants up, while the man stammers apologies.
“I’m sorry. Please, I thought it would help—he was in pain—”
“You’re apologizing to the wrong man.”
“Mr. Beneventi …”
Mind over matter, right? I’m not losing my shit over ten milligrams of oxy. The pain, dizziness, hell, even the stench of vodka still clinging to me is temporary. I’ve survived worse things than this. “Just finish the damn stitches.”
The doctor gets to work, eyeing me like he’s expecting a punch as he digs his needle into me. I almost lean in with a playful “boo” like Zia Teresa offered me weeks ago, but the oxy’s kicking in, and I’ve got shit to handle.
I lock eyes with Dante. “Bianca’s friend. Is she okay?”
“You mean Elia Lombardi?”
A smug smile tugs at his mouth, testing me. He’s like a dog sniffing out a juicy bone. “What kind of boss would I be if a rival capo’s daughter moved into my neighborhood and I didn’t notice?”
“Does my father know?”
He arches a brow, intrigued. “Should he?”
“No.”
“Then we keep this between us.”
“Thanks.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “When I found you, she wasn’t exactly singing your praises.”
“Where is she now?”
He shrugs. “Home, I imagine. Sleeping.”
“And Massimo’s men?”
“Gone long before I got there. She said they were delivering a message. Massimo wants a meeting.”
I blink through the fog, vision swimming. “A text would’ve been the nicer touch.”
Dante snorts. “You really have a gift for pissing people off.”
Gift? I should have a trophy. “He thinks we killed his father.”
“Why would we do that? Your father and Don Grassi were on good terms.”
Yeah, so were Massimo and I—right up until he instructed his men to lay hands on me.
The doctor finishes the stitches and dabs antiseptic over the wound. “Bed rest.”
I lean toward him, and unleash. “Boo.”
He scurries away.
Yeah, it’s a shitty move, and something Sandro would do. And I don’t feel any better for it. Now that the doctor’s done, I feel nothing. Just tired. “I’ll meet Massimo,” I say, the words slow and slurred. “Find out what this is about.”
Dante shakes his head. I see two of him, like I’m stuck in some carnival fun house. “You should rest. Take a few days.”
“Naooot happnin.” Bad enough the bullet ripped through me without even clipping a vein and I blacked out like some weak-ass pussy. Me. A man who died on a cross and came back breathing.
Take a few days? Lie down?
Not a chance in hell.