Chapter 8
Dante
She’s in my arms. But I still can’t breathe. Not while she’s coughing up fucking blood.
I sit in the back of the SUV, cradling her against my chest as if she’s made of glass, shattered, priceless, mine. My palm rests just beneath her collarbone, feeling for the subtle rise and fall of her breath.
Every time she exhales, I let out a breath of my own.
Every pause, my heart stops.
I can’t look away from her.
I won’t.
Mario drives, his expression indecipherable, burning through every red light without hesitance. Now and then, I catch him glancing at the rearview mirror. Checking, as if to see if she’s still breathing.
Like survival is optional, like she’s allowed to leave me.
He won’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Mario’s never been the sentimental type, none of us have. We weren’t built for softness. But even the most ruthless men have a line they won’t cross.
And Harlow?
Harlow was always that line.
Leonardo is in the passenger seat. He speaks without turning.
“The doctor is already upstairs, awaiting you.”
I nod, eyes never leaving my wife’s face.
The estate soon looms ahead, shadowed and silent, a fortress cloaked in the night. The car slows to a halt.
Leonardo is out before the engine fully cuts. He moves with purpose, opening my door without a word. I nod once in acknowledgment and step out, Harlow still in my arms, held with the kind of care that I didn’t know I was capable of.
I draw her tighter to my chest, careful not to press too hard. Every inch of her is marked, bruised, bloodied, smeared with filth that doesn’t belong to her. Her skin, once luminous, is now a canvas of suffering.
I close my eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Trying to drag myself from the inferno clawing through my chest.
For weeks, I’ve felt nothing but fury. Desperation. Retribution. The singular need to make the man who stole her from me suffer.
But now—now that she’s back in my arms, I feel everything. It hits me like a flood. Inexorable. Unforgiving.
As we approach the house, the front doors swing open with urgency. Bianca stands in the entryway, clad in her usual dark attire and apron, but for once, the composure she wears like armour falters. Her eyes brim with unshed tears, wide with horror as they land on Harlow in my arms.
Her hand flies to her mouth, trembling.
“Oh Dio... la Signora...”
Her voice cracks, soft and shattered.
I continue forward, up the stairs, past the staff moving like shadows around us. Voices murmur. None of it matters. My sole focus is the woman in my arms. As we reach the second floor, a door swings open abruptly.
“Papà!”
Mattia steps into the hall, barefoot, wide eyed, and stops cold. His eyes go straight to Harlow, drinking in every detail. Bruised. Bloodied. Motionless in my arms.
His fists clench at his sides. His jaw locks with quiet fury. The look in his eyes? It’s not the look of a child.
It’s mine. Reflected back at me.
Rage.
Shock.
A silent desperation simmering just beneath the surface.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions or cry. He just stares. And I don’t have the space in my head to hold his pain right now.
“She needs to be seen by the doctor,”
I say.
“But she’s alive.”
I don’t soften the truth. He wasn’t born into a world that permits illusions.
He nods once, still watching her, never once taking his eyes off the woman in my arms. But there, in the quiet flicker of his gaze, I see the relief. Because she’s finally home.
Once inside the bedroom, Dr. Emanuele is already waiting, everything in place, as expected. He is our family’s private physician, in his mid-sixties. Experienced. Discreet. Unfailingly loyal. But when he looks up and meets my gaze, I see the unease. He’s rattled. Nervous, despite the decades behind him.
His eyes sweep over Harlow, clinical and quick, but the tension in his posture is unmistakable. Then he gestures toward the bed.
“Lay her down, Signor Salvatore.”
He says gently, with careful respect.
I hesitate. My arms tighten around her instinctively. I need her close—like oxygen, like blood in my veins. Letting her go feels impossible.
Dr. Emanuele’s brow lifts, the motion subtle, but insistent.
“I need to examine her, sir. There’s no time to waste, every second could prove critical.”
I nod once, knowing he’s right. Whatever needs clawing at me, whatever desperation threatens to unravel me, they’re irrelevant. She is the only thing that matters.
My jaw locks as I lower her to the mattress, every movement slow, restrained, controlled only by fear.
Fear of hurting her. Of adding even a fraction more to what she’s already endured. Even in unconsciousness, it doesn’t elude me that she flinches. A wince, subtle, momentary, yet discernible.
As soon as her body touches the bed, she curls inward, folding into herself the same way I found her.
As if pain taught her to be small.
As if survival meant vanishing.
It tears something out of me, to see her like this. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. My heart feels as though it’s being wrenched from its place, torn out by an invisible hand I can’t fight. I loathe this feeling. This helplessness.
I can’t take her pain away. I can’t undo the weeks she was held in captivity. Beaten. Broken. Subjected to horrors I may never fully comprehend.
But I can do one thing. I can shift the weight of this hatred. And focus it where it belongs.
Piero.
He did this. And he will pay, with his life and then some. I will make him suffer. Until he begs for an end he will not be granted. Until his name is scrubbed from this earth like filth from marble.
The doctor clears his throat, a quiet but firm attempt to cut through the silence.
“I need everyone out.”
At his words, I glance up, suddenly aware of just how many people have filled the room. Bianca stands near the dresser, pale and rigid. Mattia lingers near the doorway, unmoving. Leonardo, Niccolò, and Giovanni, each of them tense, their expressions etched in stone.
I grit my teeth. No one moves. Not for a long, suspended second.
Emanuele swallows hard but holds his ground.
“I need the room cleared immediately. I can’t help her properly with a crowd. Only Signor Salvatore may remain.”
He glances at me.
“The rest must wait outside.”
“You heard him.”
I say, my tone final, not leaving room for argument.
One by one, they begin to file out. Silent. Heavy with unspoken tension and barely restrained fury. I wait until the last figure slips through the door, then move around the bed and lower myself beside my wife. My hand finds hers. Instinctively. Possessively.
Dr. Emanuele clears his throat.
“I need to remove her dress.”
He says quietly, cautiously. The nerves are there, woven into his voice. He knows exactly how I might react. And he’s right to be afraid.
My jaw tightens. My fists clench at my sides, the urge to tear the doctor apart nearly oppressive. No one should see her like this. No one but me.
“Sir,”
he says gently, though I hear the strain beneath his calm.
“I need to assess the extent of her injuries. And I must do it quickly, she’s in critical condition.”
I look at him, long and hard. Long enough to make him sweat under the weight of my silence.
I grit down on every instinct screaming inside me. Anchor myself in something that resembles reason. And finally, I nod.
What choice do I fucking have?
There isn’t a trusted female physician within my circle, an oversight that will need to be rectified. Because watching a man, even one bound by skill and loyalty, place his hands on my wife, even in the name of saving her, rips something primal and savage from inside me.
I am irrational, unapologetically so. But rationality was abandoned the moment Harlow became mine.
With careful, trembling restraint, I reach for the ruined slip of fabric clinging to her battered body. The dress is little more than a shred of cloth, torn, sullied, unworthy of her in every conceivable way. With careful hands, I peel it away, revealing bruised skin and raw vulnerability beneath. She’s left in nothing but a pair of panties.
Exposed. Ethereal. Deathly still.
I grab the blanket from the bed and drape it over her chest, covering her.
The doctor steps forward and begins his examination. He’s slow. Professional.
Still, I watch every movement like a fucking hawk.
He works down the length of her body, checking vitals, pressing carefully into her ribs. She flinches in unconsciousness, a soft whimper escaping her lips.
“Be careful.”
I growl, the sound low and guttural, dragged from deep inside my chest. It scarcely resembles language.
“Two cracked ribs,”
he murmurs, composed despite the threat in my voice.
“Possibly three. I’ll need imaging to be certain.”
“She’s coughing blood.”
I grit through my teeth, holding back a murderous impulse by sheer force of will.
Dr. Emanuele nods, his expression grave.
“That’s what concerns me most. She’s exhibiting signs of pneumonia… and I suspect a punctured lung.”
The words strike ringing in my skull. My blood turns to ice.
“Is she going to be all right?”
I ask, each word pushed through clenched teeth.
She has to be.
There is no alternative. I won’t allow one.
If she thinks she can simply slip away from me now, she’s sorely mistaken. I’ll fight heaven. I’ll drag her back from hell if I must.
But she’s staying.
Even if I have to wage war against the universe itself... She. Is. Staying.
A knock at the door draws both the doctor’s and my attention.
“Come in.”
Emanuele says.
Two of my men step inside, carefully wheeling in a portable imaging device, one of several contingencies I’ve ensured we keep on hand. In our world, danger is constant, and a hospital isn’t a viable option. Without wasting time, the doctor begins the scan, working in silence as the machine hums softly. He studies the screen, adjusting angles, capturing what he needs. I watch him, my hand still wrapped around Harlow’s.
Minutes pass.
Finally, he leans back, shoulders tense, eyes still fixed on the display.
“It’s not severe,”
he says.
“The lung isn’t fully collapsed, likely a small puncture. Judging by the inflammation, I’d estimate it occurred recently. Today, perhaps this morning.”
He pauses, glancing down at her before continuing.
“She has pneumonia. Her breathing is laboured, and the infection’s taken hold. I’ve started her on intravenous antibiotics, as well as fluids to combat dehydration. The pulmonary injury hasn’t progressed. She’s stable for now. I’ll keep her on oxygen and monitor her closely throughout the night. No chest tube necessary, at the moment. Hopefully, it stays that way.”
I exhale, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It’s hollow and temporary.
“I’ll remain here,”
the doctor adds.
“I’ll take one of the staff quarters. She won’t be unattended.”
I nod once. It’s the only response I can manage. My throat is too fucking tight. My mind louder than the room.
And then I ask the question that’s been eating me alive.
“Why hasn’t she woken up?”
The doctor wavers before answering. When his gaze meets mine, there’s a weight behind it, something even he doesn’t want to voice.
“She’s severely malnourished,”
he says quietly.
“Dangerously underweight. Dehydrated. Her immune system is compromised. The pneumonia, the pulmonary trauma, the bruising across her body... it’s extensive.”
He looks down at her again, his voice softening.
“And that’s only what we can see.”
He pauses for a beat, then with more hesitation adds.
“There’s the psychological toll. The trauma. I haven’t the slightest notion of what she’s endured, nor do I know where her mind currently resides. But when one suffers to such an extent... the mind can, at times, disengage as a means of preservation. She’s unconscious, certainly, but this may very well be her body’s way of safeguarding itself.”
My fingers tighten around hers.
“She will wake up.”
I say, adamant.
He nods slowly.
“Yes. Eventually. It could be hours. Days. And when she does… she might wake up screaming. She may not recognize you. Or—”
He glances at me.
“She might wake up perfectly calm. We just don’t know.”
There’s no certainty in his voice. No assurances. Just the brutal truth.
“There’s no rulebook,”
he finishes quietly.
“for how the mind survives trauma.”
I nod, my head racing.
He packs his things, glancing at Harlow one last time, then at me.
“I shall return in a few hours,”
he says gently.
“To assess her vitals. We’ll proceed incrementally, one step at a time.”
There’s something close to pity in his expression.
It’s fucking unwanted.
As he reaches the door, he turns back, once more.
“I believe it would be prudent to bring in a gynaecologist,”
he says, pausing.
“To conduct a rape kit examination?”
I stare at him, frozen. My mind blanks for a moment, I can’t fucking process what he’s saying at first. The thought of Harlow having gone through that above everything else, is suffocating. It’s killing me.
Did I fail her that catastrophically?
The room tilts around me. I understand his reasoning, of course I do, but I don’t fucking know what the right move is. I am a man built on control. It’s the only way to hold Cammora in my grip. But right now, that control is slipping through my hands. I’m staring down a situation with no clear path forward, no calculated next step. And this is about my wife, the one line I cannot afford to cross, the one person I cannot fail. Not again. Not ever.
One thing is certain, she’s my priority. Her health, her safety, nothing comes before that. If he truly...
I can’t even force the words out. The thought alone threatens to snap the last thread of control I have left.
If it happened… I shove the possibility forward, jaw locked so tight it aches. She needs a doctor, a woman, someone who can examine her with care and discretion. I need confirmation that she’s healthy.
I nod to him.
“Find me someone.”
He nods once in return.
“It’ll be done.”
He exits, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room is too quiet now.
Except for the hum of the oxygen machine, the beep of the monitor, and the soft, fragile sound of her breathing.
My leonessa.
Crushed.
But not gone.
I rise slowly, making my way to the bathroom. At the sink, I fill a basin with warm water and dampen a soft cloth.
Returning to the bed, I lower myself beside her. Gently, I begin wiping away the dried blood from the corners of her mouth, along her cheeks, across her jawline, tender, as though the wrong touch might cause her to shatter. Her hands are next, bruised, knuckles split and raw. I cleanse them just as carefully. When finished, I set the cloth aside and straighten, the weight of it all settling deeper into my chest.
I shed my clothes on the way to the shower, stepping beneath the cool stream. My palms brace against the cold tile, forehead pressing hard to the wall. The guilt crashes into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, tenacious and savage.
I want to drive my fist through the marble, to unleash a roar so violent it shatters the air, to dismantle this entire goddamn world piece by fucking piece.
What did he do to her?
How long did she scream before her voice broke?
I shut my eyes and force the breath through my lungs, dragging air in like it costs me something, ready to detonate. Because right now, she doesn’t need this fire, she needs quiet. Peace. A world that doesn’t burn around her. And I’ll give it to her. I’ll give her everything she asks for. There isn’t a concept in this world she could name that I wouldn’t offer without a second thought.
Afterward, I towel off and step into the walk in closet, pulling on a pair of dark pyjama pants. When I return to the bedroom, my gaze finds her instantly, drawn to her like a lifeline I can’t afford to lose. She hasn’t moved. She lies utterly still, swallowed by layers of blankets. A mask covers her face, and wires trail from her limbs, as if they’re trying to anchor her to this world by force.
I slip beneath the covers and turn toward her, careful. I take her hand in mine and hold it, gentle but firm, like I’m reminding her she’s not alone, not anymore.
I watch her chest rise.
Fall.
Rise again.
Each breath counted like it’s sacred, a quiet reassurance that she’s here with me. Watching her like this grants me some semblance of peace, even if it’s only a fraction. But then also the weight of it all crashes down, the fury, the bone deep exhaustion.
But she’s home now. With me.
Where no one will ever touch her again.
And for the first time in weeks, I allow myself to close my eyes.