Chapter 24 Elena
ELENA
The villa smells the same as it always has—orange blossoms and salt from the sea below, freshly polished wood, and old stone floors warmed by the sun.
I breathe it in deeply the moment Luca and I step foot past the villa doors, my eyes wandering around the foyer space as they’re shut behind us. But everything feels different now since that night I ran with Luca.
It all looks the same but… there is something off about this place now.
Maybe I’m different.
After spending the last week recovering at the hospital, Dante had been able to take us home. To my surprise, I’m not led to the master bedroom when we move upstairs. I’m brought to a suite right across from Luca’s room with French doors that open onto a private terrace overlooking the cliffside.
Medical equipment has already been set up inside the room and hums quietly when I enter. Near the bed, an IV stand, monitor, and rolling cart of bandages and painkillers are all perfectly set up as a little makeshift clinic.
The bed is enormous and piled with pillows that look softer than clouds. Running my hand over the crisp white linens, it almost feels obscene compared to the thin hospital sheets I’ve been used to.
“Wow, Mama. New room!” Luca says, tugging on my hand with an excitement that feels wildly out of place after everything we’ve survived.
The medical suite smells faintly of disinfectant and fresh laundry, a strange hybrid of hospital and home. I squeeze his hand back automatically, managing a small smile as I turn to glance over my shoulder.
Dante stands just inside the doorway.
He’s been quiet since I woke up, but I suppose that’s to be expected.
I, too, would be shaken after watching someone nearly die in my arms. I can’t imagine what it did to him, almost losing me in nearly the same way he lost Matteo—covered in blood, using frantic pressure against a wound, feeling the same helplessness as he had back then while life threatened to slip through his fingers.
Guilt tugs at me.
He didn’t deserve to relive that.
Least of all because of me.
“Let’s get you set up,” he says quietly before finally brushing past me.
Luca immediately lets go of my hand and darts forward to inspect everything, climbing up onto the mattress to bounce on it a few times before Dante scoops him up into his arms.
Every shift of movement pulls at my stitches, a hot line of fire that reminds me exactly how close I came to leaving Luca motherless.
But exhaustion eventually wins the way it always does and by the time the afternoon sun slants golden across the floor, I’ve been tucked under the covers and given up every ounce of control to be taken care of.
Luca curls against my good side and for a few blessed hours, I let myself relax.
The rest of the day passes in a haze as nurses, privately hired by Dante, come and go.
A tray of food arrives every few hours filled with broth dishes, soft buttered bread, and fruit cut into perfectly bite-sized pieces.
Someone eventually brings Luca crayons and paper to occupy him while I rest and watch as he draws boats sailing on blue waves.
Night falls quickly after that.
The terrace doors are open to let in the breeze. I fight the urge to ask for them to be closed, memories of the Bellantis almost kidnapping us flashing through my mind rapidly as I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.
I remind myself that they wouldn’t be that stupid. Not so soon after failing the last time. Even if they are opportunists like Dante describes them as, they wouldn’t risk another attempt with Dante’s men already on high alert.
They had gotten lucky scooping up Luca and me when they did.
Though no matter how hard I try to calm myself down, listening to both Luca’s soft breathing and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffside, Nicolo’s voice keeps circling in my head.
I can get you out.
The card he left is in the nightstand drawer. I haven’t looked at it since he slipped it into my hand at the hospital.
I turn my head toward the door.
Even without seeing him, I know Dante is right outside that door, leaning up against the wall right across from it. He insisted on having first watch over us, saying he wouldn’t leave us alone tonight.
My heart twists so hard, it hurts more than the stitches.
I still love him.
Honestly, I never stopped.
I loved him when I was seventeen and reckless, when every tryst felt both sacred and forbidden.
I loved him when I was twenty-two and running from the only life I ever knew, carrying his child with me to a foreign city.
I loved him even when he found me and brought me back to Italy, even when we fought over and over.
And most of all, I loved him when he tore through Don Toselli’s estate like a storm made of flesh and saved us.
But… love isn’t safety.
Not in a world where syndicates like the Bellantis still roam free. Luca has already seen too much. He deserves more than this. He deserves sunlight and laughter and a life where no one ever points a weapon at him again and almost takes his mother’s life.
Dante can’t give him that. No matter how much he wants to. No matter how fiercely he fights. It just isn’t possible.
I swallow the knot in my throat, blinking back the sting behind my eyes.
Tomorrow, when Dante leaves for his morning meeting—the one he always takes in the study with Romano and Bianchi on Tuesdays—I’ll call Nicolo. After that, everything will be out of my hands. I hate myself for doing this to Dante a third time, but I know there’s no other way.
Without waking Luca, I carefully slip out of bed.
The dull ache in my side protests immediately, but I grit my teeth and work through it.
The monitoring wires cling stubbornly to my skin, the adhesive tugging when I peel them free one by one.
It takes far longer than I expect and by the time I’m finished, a thin sheen of sweat has gathered at the back of my neck.
Still, I don’t stop.
When I’m free, I glance back once more to memorize the sight of my son sprawled across the mattress, his hair a dark halo against the pillow, tucked safe and sound under the covers.
I smile, then slip into the hallway.
The door barely clicks shut behind me before Dante’s head snaps up from where he sits in a chair across the hallway. He stands immediately, his eyes instantly sweeping past me to scan the room behind my shoulder with lethal efficiency.
“What’s wrong?” The question is sharp, already edged with readiness. His hand moves toward the weapon at his hip without conscious thought.
I grab his wrist before he can draw it.
His gaze drops to me, alarm shifting into something more searching as he takes me in. “Elena—”
I don’t let him finish. I place my other hand flat against his chest and gently push him back until his shoulders meet the wall behind him. He allows it, though confusion flickers across his face.
“Dante.”
“What?” His voice lowers, tension threading through that single word.
I release his wrist and bring my hand up to his face.
The moment my palm cups his cheek, the change in him is immediate. The steel drains from his posture. His eyes soften, lashes lowering slightly as he leans into my touch like it’s something he’s been starved for.
My thumb traces the familiar line of his cheekbone.
“I want you,” I whisper.
His breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll refuse. That he’ll remind me that I’m still healing, that I should be in bed and spending this time with our son while he’s out here all alone protecting us.
Maybe it is foolish of me to want this—want him so soon after almost dying. But death has a funny way of reminding you of how fragile life can be. How quickly things can turn for the worst when you least expect them to.
Before I go, I want to spend one last night with him. It’s selfish, I know, but it will be the only thing I've ever done for me and me alone.
His jaw tightens as he studies me.
“You should be resting,” he murmurs, but the words lack conviction.
“I’ve rested enough.” My fingers slide lightly into his hair at the nape of his neck.
The conflict in his eyes burns bright now, desire colliding with the restraint he’s leaning on to keep himself from turning us and backing me up against the wall instead.
“You were shot two weeks ago,” he says quietly.
“And you almost lost me,” I reply just as softly. “Let me remind you that I’m still here.”
His expression fractures at that. For a moment, he simply looks at me like he’s trying to memorize every detail, the color in my face, the steadiness of my breathing, the fact that I’m standing in front of him at all.
His hand comes up slowly, almost cautiously, to rest against my face. His other hand brushes just barely against my side, careful to avoid the place where the bandages lie beneath the thin fabric.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his voice rough.
I nod.
He searches my face one last time, as if looking for any slight sign of hesitation. Finding none, his restraint finally gives way. Very gently, he bends and slides one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back. A small gasp escapes me as he lifts me effortlessly into his arms.
“Reckless woman,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.
I rest my forehead against his shoulder as he carries me back to his room. When he lays me down on the mattress after sealing us safely inside, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hand lingers at my jaw, thumb brushing softly across my lower lip.
For a long moment, we simply look at one another. Then he leans down and presses his forehead to mine.
“I’m so sorry.” The words are so quiet, I almost miss them.
I thread my fingers through his hair again. “Don’t. Not tonight.”