Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Bianca
The warehouse fades behind us and my hands won't stop shaking. Adrian's blood, the crack of his neck, the way his eyes went empty—it's all I can see when I blink.
"Where to?" Tony asks from the driver's seat.
I open my mouth to say home, but what comes out is: "The clinic."
Dante's hand tightens on mine. "Bianca—"
"I need to see my mom." My voice cracks. "Please. Now."
He studies my face and something in my expression must convince him because he nods at Tony. "St. Catherine's."
Dante pulls out a clean shirt, I guess he keeps one in every car for situations like these.
He uses some wipes to clean up the best he can, removing the blood, and then grabs a first aid kit stored in the door and disinfects and bandages his cuts.
He then buttons up the clean shirt and slicks back his hair.
The drive is endless, every red light and every slow car making my chest tighter. Something's wrong—I feel it in my bones, in the way the pendant suddenly weighs too much against my chest.
We pull up at midnight. The building is quiet, most lights off except the soft glow from patient rooms.
Patricia meets us at the entrance, and I can see that her eyes are red.
No.
"Miss Mancini. I’ve been calling for you but your phone was turned off." Her voice is too gentle, too sad. "She's been asking for you."
My legs go weak and Dante's arm comes around my waist, holding me upright.
"How long?" I manage.
"Hours. Maybe less." Patricia touches my shoulder. "Dr. Kent said... you should say goodbye."
The hallway stretches impossibly long and each step feels like walking through water. Dante stops at Mom's door. "I'll wait here."
I nod, can't speak, just push through alone.
The room smells like antiseptic and something else—something final.
Mom's so small in that bed. When did she get so small?
"Mom?"
Her eyes flutter open, cloudy and unfocused, then they find me and clear slightly. "Bianca."
"I'm here." I cross to her, take her hand. It's cold, too cold. "I'm right here."
"Good." A weak smile. "I was waiting."
Tears blur my vision. "Don't talk like that—"
"We both know." Her fingers squeeze mine with surprising strength. "It's okay, sweetheart."
It's not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
I kick off my shoes and climb into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle the IV lines. She shifts to make room and I curl into her side like I used to when I was little and had nightmares.
"Tell me about him," she whispers. "Your dangerous man."
A sob catches in my throat. "Mom—"
"Please. I want to know you're loved."
So I tell her everything—about Dante's rage and his gentleness, how he sees me completely and chooses me anyway, how he makes me feel owned and cherished in the same breath.
"He killed someone tonight," I whisper. "Adrian. He kidnapped me and tried to take me out of the country and Dante... he killed him."
I expect shock, horror, but instead Mom's hand tightens on mine.
"Good." Her voice is barely there. "That's what love does. Protects. Even when it's ugly."
Her breathing gets shallower, each inhale a visible effort.
"I'm scared." My voice breaks. "I don't know how to do this without you."
"You're stronger than you know." Her eyes drift closed. "Always have been."
"Don't go. Please, Mom. I'm not ready."
"Neither am I." A sad smile. "But we don't get to choose."
The machines beep slower, softer.
I hold her hand tighter, press my face into her shoulder—the shoulder that held me through every nightmare, every disappointment, every moment I thought I couldn't survive.
"I love you," I whisper.
"I know." Her voice is fading. "I loved you from the moment I knew you existed. Every choice... was for you."
"I know."
Her breathing changes, slows.
"It's okay," I tell her, even though it's killing me. "You can let go. I'll be okay. I promise."
One more breath.
Two.
Then stillness.
The machines flatline with a long, steady tone that drills into my skull.
"No." I shake her gently. "Mom, please—"
But she's gone and the door opens. Patricia, a doctor—they rush in, but I already know, can feel the absence where her soul used to be.
"Miss Mancini." The doctor's voice is kind. "I'm so sorry."
I don't move, just stay curled against her cooling body while they turn off the machines, while the awful beeping finally stops.
"Take all the time you need," Patricia says softly.
They leave.
I don't know how long I stay—minutes, hours, time doesn't work anymore.
Finally, my body forces me to move, stiff muscles screaming as I slide off the bed. I kiss Mom's forehead one last time, already too cold and already not her, and stumble toward the door.
Dante's there, leaning against the wall opposite her room with his arms crossed and his face carved from stone.
When he sees me, something cracks in his expression.
I take two steps and my legs give out.
He catches me before I hit the floor, pulls me against his chest with his arms wrapping me so tight I can barely breathe.
"She's gone," I sob into his shirt. "She's gone and I'm alone—"
"No." His voice is rough. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
I break completely, shatter in his arms while he holds me together. He doesn't tell me it'll be okay, doesn't offer empty words—just holds me while I scream into his chest, while I soak his new shirt with tears and grief so raw it feels like dying.
When I finally quiet, he scoops me up and carries me like I weigh nothing.
"Let's go home," he murmurs against my hair.
Home.
Such a simple word.
But when he says it—with me in his arms and his heart beating steady against my ear—it sounds like a promise.
Like maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.