Chapter 22 Elena
ELENA
The first thing I feel when I claw my way back into consciousness is pressure wrapped around my hand.
For one terrifying second, I don’t know where I am or if this is some strange afterlife trick that I’ve somehow wound up in. My mind floats between memories of the bullet hitting me and the pain in Dante’s voice as he begged me not to leave, forcing my chest to tighten reflexively.
I don’t know if I’ll ever forget that look in his eyes or unhear the shakiness in his voice. Never in my life did I ever think I’d witness Dante Cosenza falling apart, especially over someone like me.
When I finally open my eyes, a sterile ceiling swims above me, harshly lit by fluorescent lights that hum softly overhead. The sound is joined by others next to me from the low mechanical murmurs of machines keeping track of my body.
A hospital?
Pain blooms along my side the moment I try to shift and sit up. It’s a deep and aching pressure that is painful enough to steal my breath for a second. I hiss quietly, instinctively tightening my fingers around the hand holding mine.
The hand tightens back.
I turn my head just enough to see Luca curled against me on the narrow bed, his small body tucked into my good side.
One arm is wrapped around my forearm, his fingers clutching mine even in sleep.
His face is blotchy, lashes clumped together while tear tracks have long since dried against his cheeks.
His chest rises and falls in slow breaths, exhaustion evident on his face.
My heart breaks all over again.
“Oh, baby…” I whisper.
I don’t dare move my arm and wake him. I just watch him, committing the sight to memory that he’s still alive, still breathing when not too long ago—hours?
Days? Weeks?—I was certain I was going to watch him die.
I can still hear that awful, heart-shattering sound of his scream when Enzo lifted the gun and aimed it at him. A sound no child should ever make.
I remember my body moving before my mind could catch up.
The moment Enzo raised the gun toward my baby, everything else ceased to exist. There was no Dante. No syndicates. No revenge or conspiracies or consequences. There was only Luca and the certainty that if someone was going to die in that room, it would be me.
The impact had been brutal, white-hot as my body had split open from the inside. I remember the sound tearing out of me before I even realized I had gasped, the way my knees buckled and how the world tilted as Dante burst into the room, his face slack with pure, unfiltered horror.
Even then through the pain and the shock, I knew I’d made the right choice.
I would make it again. Every single time.
What hurts more than the wound stitched up on my side is the knowledge that Luca saw it all. That he was there, that his small mind now has to process the sight of his mother bleeding out on the floor because those much more powerful than the both of us decided it so.
I hate that more than anything.
I hate that his first memories of Sicily will be this instead of sunlight and laughter like I had in my childhood.
I hate that the innocence I fought so hard to protect while we were in New York eventually cracked under the weight of this world the way I feared it one day would.
I hate that he knows on some level that people wanted him dead simply for existing.
But… at least he is alive.
We are alive.
The thought sends a shaky wave of relief through me, enough to make my eyes burn.
Only then do I lift my eyes and move them around the room.
Dante sits in the chair beside the bed, hunched forward like he’s been there for hours—days, maybe—unmoving. His sleeves are rolled up, his jacket gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His head is bowed slightly as his dark hair falls into his eyes.
As much as I prayed he wouldn’t come for Luca and me, hoped like hell he’d stay away so my son wouldn’t have to watch his father die trying to save us, seeing him tear through that room to reach us was the second best thing that’s ever happened to me. Second only to the day Luca was born.
There had been no hesitation in Dante, none of that cold calculation I’m so used to seeing.
Just pure, feral intent as he crossed that space like nothing in the world could stop him from getting to us.
The image of him dropping to his knees beside us, his hands shaking as he pressed them to my wound, is burned into me just as deeply as the pain.
I watch him now for a long while, letting the quiet settle around us. His face twitches faintly in sleep, tension still etched into the lines of his brow even here, safely tucked away inside a hospital room.
For the first time in years, I let myself look at him without anger or fear clouding my vision. To the man who ran into gunfire for his family and who nearly lost everything again and somehow still fought to save us anyway.
I look down at Luca again and slowly reach up to brush my fingers through his tangled hair. His grip tightens reflexively around my arm as if some part of him is still afraid I might vanish if he lets go.
“You’re awake.” The sound of the voice makes me flinch.
My eyes snap up too fast, causing the room to swim for a second before my vision slowly focuses.
Dante.
He’s leaning forward in the chair now, elbows braced on his knees while he watches me intently.
Now that his eyes are open, I can see the damage the last few days have done to him.
Dark circles bruise the skin beneath them, darker than I’ve ever seen before.
Thin, red veins spider across the whites around his pupils, evidence of the level of exhaustion he’s been faced with.
When I try to speak, nothing comes out, my throat scratching like sandpaper. Dante is already moving, though, reaching for a small plastic cup filled with water on the bedside tray next to the machines. He brings it up to my lips without a word, keeping one hand under my head to steady it.
“Slow,” he murmurs, barely louder than the machines.
I do as he says, taking small sips. The coolness spreads across my tongue and down my throat, soothing the raw ache there and easing the dryness that makes every breath feel like effort. Relief swells so suddenly, it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
I blink them back, swallowing again.
“You were out for almost two days,” he says quietly once I finish, setting the cup down onto the tray again. “They… didn’t think you’d make it.”
My heart tugs painfully as my gaze drifts instinctively down to my side.
The question sits heavily on my tongue—What did Luca see?
—but I swallow it back down before it can move past my lips.
I already know the answer in the way my chest tightens.
He was there. He saw me go down after the gun had gone off.
He saw the blood. Even if he couldn’t understand what was happening, children still remember things like that long after the danger has passed.
I hate that more than the pain. He’ll never forget this. Not completely. Even if the memories fade with time, the feeling will still stay, that instinctive feeling that will remain unexplainable until he’s old enough for me to sit down and talk to him about it.
When I lift my eyes back up to Dante’s, I know I’m not the only one with that same understanding. He, out of anyone, knows that trauma has a way of carving itself into you viciously and without permission.
I clear my throat, shifting my attention to something else equally important. “Carlo? Enzo? Are they…?”
Dante nods. “They’re dead.”
Relief rushes through me in an instant.
For a long moment, I do nothing but soak in the good news.
It’s over.
The sentiment feels unreal. My entire life for the past four years has been filled with anticipation for the next disaster to strike, the next moment where everything falls apart again because forces outside of my control have decided to play God within their own syndicate.
Now that it’s finally over, Luca and I won’t have to live like hunted animals anymore. No more flinching at every unfamiliar sound, no more looking over my shoulder every time we go outside. Maybe now, Dante will let us leave the villa. I would love to show Luca around Sicily.
I’m clinging to that hope when Dante speaks again. “The only thing left is to track down the Bellanti Don. He managed to escape before anyone could take him down.”
The relief in me plummets in an instant.
So… it isn’t truly over. A figure still lingers at the edge of everything we’ve survived. A man who knows how to exploit weakness and has already proven he’s willing to do what it takes to get what he wants. Someone patient enough to wait, regroup, and strike again when we least expect it.
“What’s wrong?” Dante asks, watching me too closely.
I hesitate. “I… don’t know if we can go back there.”
Confusion flickers across his face, followed closer by hurt. “You’re not safe anywhere else, Elena. I can protect you there.”
“That’s what you said before. If the Bellanti Don is still out there, who’s to say he won’t try again? Next time… I don’t think he’d let Luca and me live long enough to be used against you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hands curl into tight fists in his lap, his knuckles whitening. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and controlled, the words forced through clenched teeth.
“He has no one paying him to come after you anymore. You will be fine. I’m tracking him down as we speak because I don’t like loose ends. Not because he’s a threat to you.”
I shake my head. “I can’t raise Luca like that, Dante. I can’t live waiting for the next shoe to drop over and over again. I won’t do that to him.”
The silence that follows is crushing.
He doesn’t lash out or retreat behind anger the way he usually does when he doesn’t like where a conversation is going.
He just… looks at me. That same controlled expression is there, the one he’s worn like armor for years, but this time, the mask doesn’t sit quite right.
Fatigue has worn the harsh edges down, his eyes betraying him.
Matteo used to say Dante talked with his eyes.
I hadn’t understood it back then. I’d thought it was just one of those affectionate observations people make about someone they’ve known their whole lives the way Matteo always was used to.
Dante was always so careful in public, so unreadable when others were around.
It was only behind closed doors with me that he ever allowed himself to unravel. I’d thought that was what Matteo meant.
But now, I think I understand differently.
Because when I look into Dante’s grey-green eyes, I see everything he isn’t saying. The grief he never learned how to put down, the exhaustion of carrying an empire re-built from ruin, the guilt that’s become a part of him. And beneath all of it, a bone-deep sadness for my pushing him away.
“You and Luca are my world. Without you… there’s nothing left. Please don’t go,” he whispers.
My throat tightens, emotion burning behind my eyes until tears threaten to spill. I want to tell him that I don’t want to go. That I’m tired of running, tired of always having to look over my shoulder. That I wish love alone could be enough to save us all.
But wishing doesn’t change reality.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper back.
Dante pushes up from his chair and stands, turning away before I can see whatever emotions are pinching his face. He tells me to think it over, his voice already distant again as he leaves the room to get some air and shuts the door behind him.
I stare down at Luca and finally let the tears fall. Strangely, now I understand a hard truth I’ve been afraid to admit to myself.
Love might not be enough to save us from losing what I once thought was unbreakable.