Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kristen
The phone rings through my sleep.
My legs ache from eight hours on the diner floor, and my brain takes three full rings to remember where I am. Apartment. Bed.
Fourth ring.
I grab the phone, squinting at the too-bright screen. Vittoria's name glows back at me. The time reads 3:47 AM.
Something is wrong.
"Hello?" My voice comes out sandpaper-rough.
Crying. That's what I hear first. Ragged, wet sobs that make my stomach drop through the mattress.
"Kristen." Vittoria's voice breaks on my name. "It's Nico. He's—" Another sob swallows her words.
I sit up so fast the room tilts. "What happened?"
"He got shot. In the chest. He's in surgery right now and they don't know—" Her voice cracks completely. "They don't know if he's going to make it."
The words don't make sense. They're just sounds, syllables that refuse to arrange themselves into meaning. Shot. Chest. Surgery.
Nico.
"Where?" I'm already throwing the covers off, my feet hitting cold floor. "Vittoria, where is he?"
"St. Mary's. The private wing on the fourth floor. Kristen, there was so much blood—"
"I'm coming."
I hang up before she can say anything else. My hands shake so violently I nearly drop the phone twice while pulling up my mother's number.
He can't die. He can't.
The thought pulses through me like a second heartbeat. Angry, desperate, terrified.
My mother answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. "Kristen? What's wrong?"
"I need you to come stay with Lily. Right now. Please, Mom." The words tumble out wrong, too fast, tripping over each other. "There's been an accident. Someone I—someone got hurt and I have to—"
"I'm on my way." No questions. No hesitation. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"I'll send a cab."
I end the call and immediately order an Uber to her address, then another to mine. My fingers feel like they belong to someone else. Clumsy. Disconnected.
I need to get dressed.
I walk to my dresser and open it, staring blankly at the contents. My brain screams at me to move, but my hands reach for my hairbrush instead. I start brushing my hair.
What the fuck am I doing?
I drop the brush. It clatters against the floor, and I flinch at the sound. Clothes. I need clothes.
I pull on the first thing I touch. Then I realize I'm still wearing sleep shorts underneath and have to start over.
My vision blurs. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, refusing to name what's happening to my face.
Jeans. I find jeans. My legs protest as I yank them on, muscles screaming from carrying plates and coffee pots for minimum wage plus tips. I grab a sweater and pull it over my head.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, pressing my palms against my eyes hard enough to see stars. He took a bullet in the chest. The words finally arrange themselves into meaning, and I wish they hadn't.
Nico. My Nico.
And now he might die thinking I hate him.
I grab my keys off the nightstand, then set them down. Pick up my phone. Put it in my pocket. Take it out again. Stare at it.
When Mom finally knocks, I have the door open before her hand drops.
"Go," she says, reading something in my face that makes her expression soften. "I've got her."
I want to explain. Want to tell her about Nico, about what he means, about the impossible tangle of feelings I've been drowning in for weeks. But there's no time.
"Thank you." The words catch in my throat.
Kristen
The hallway stretches forever.
White walls. White tile. That antiseptic smell that makes my stomach turn because nothing good ever happens in places that smell like this.
I see them before they see me.
Pietro stands with his back against the wall, arms crossed, face carved from stone.
Nora sits beside him, her hand on his arm, red hair pulled back in a messy knot.
Lorenzo paces near the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Italian I can't understand.
Sophia watches him with worried eyes, her fingers twisted together in her lap.
Vittoria sits alone, knees pulled to her chest in a plastic chair.
And Bruno.
Bruno is here. In his wheelchair at the end of the row, jaw tight, hands gripping the armrests like he might snap them off.
They're all here. Every single one of them.
He needs to be okay. He has to be okay. All these people need him.
My feet keep moving even though my legs feel like they might give out any second. The coffee machine at the end of the hall makes a grinding sound that sets my teeth on edge.
Vittoria's head snaps up.
"Kristen?"
She's on her feet before I can respond, running toward me, and then she crashes into my arms and she's sobbing against my shoulder. I hold her tight, my own eyes burning, my throat so thick I can barely breathe.
"You came," she whispers. "You actually came."
"Of course I came." My voice cracks. Stupid. Hold it together. "Has anything changed? How long has he been in surgery?"
Vittoria pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Two hours. They said—they said the bullet hit close to his heart. There was so much bleeding and they don't know—"
Her voice breaks.
I grab her hands, squeeze hard. "He's strong. He's so strong, Vittoria."
She nods, but her chin wobbles.
I look past her to the others. Pietro's watching me with an unreadable expression. Nora gives me a small, tired smile. Lorenzo has stopped pacing, phone lowered to his side.
Don't collapse. Don't you dare collapse right now.
"Does anyone need coffee?" The words tumble out, automatic, because I need to do something with my hands. "Or water? Food? I can get—"
"Kristen." Sophia appears beside me, her face gentle but firm. "I'll get coffee. You need to sit down."
"I'm fine. I can—"
"Sit."
It's not a request.
My knees buckle before I make the conscious decision to move. Sophia guides me to a chair, and I sink into the hard plastic, my hands shaking in my lap. The trembling spreads up my arms, into my chest, until my whole body feels like it might vibrate apart.
He could die thinking I hate him.
The thought hits me like a punch to the sternum. I told him I hated him. I said those words to his face and then I left and now he's in surgery with a bullet near his heart and what if those are the last words—
"Why the fuck did you leave?"
My head jerks up.
Bruno is staring at me from his wheelchair, dark eyes burning with something that looks almost like accusation. His knuckles are white against the armrests.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice is low, rough, dangerous. "If you give a shit about him, and clearly you do, since you're sitting here shaking like a leaf, why the fuck did you leave?"
I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up. "I don't—"
"Bruno," Pietro warns.
Bruno ignores him. His gaze stays locked on mine, unflinching. "My brother has been drinking himself into an early grave for the past weeks. Won't eat. Won't sleep. Walked into that warehouse alone like he had a death wish because some woman disappeared."
The words land like blows.
Each one.
Death wish.
"That's not—" My voice comes out wrong, strangled.
"Bruno, enough." Lorenzo's voice cuts through the tension.
But Bruno doesn't stop. He leans forward in his chair, and even sitting, even broken, he radiates the same dangerous energy as his brothers.
"You know what Nico's problem is? He doesn't know how to love people in small ways.
He doesn't know how to just talk about things.
He sees a problem, he eliminates it. That's how he was raised. That's how we all were raised."
My throat burns.
I don't say anything.
I just look at him.
Bruno Sartori sits in his wheelchair like a king on a throne. Dark hair falls across his forehead. His jaw is sharp, stubbled, clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. Dark circles shadow his eyes.
Rage. Helplessness. Pain that has nowhere to go.
He's wearing a dark sweater that hangs off shoulders still broad with muscle. His hands grip those armrests like they're the only things keeping him tethered to this earth.
He doesn't know me.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone.
Bruno doesn't know a single thing about what happened between me and Nico.
And even if he did, making me feel guilty right now isn't exactly productive.
Thanks for the insight, Bruno. Really helpful while your brother bleeds out on an operating table.
I don't say it. I don't say anything at all.
I just keep looking at him.
"Bruno." Vittoria's voice is small, exhausted. "Please stop."
He finally breaks eye contact with me. His jaw works like he's chewing. For a long moment, he just sits there, radiating fury and grief in equal measure. Then he wheels himself backward, turning away from all of us to face the window.
The silence stretches.
I stare at my hands in my lap. They've stopped shaking, which feels wrong somehow. Like my body has decided to go numb instead of fall apart.
Death wish.
Bruno's words echo in my skull.
Walked into that warehouse alone like he had a death wish.
My nails dig into my palms. The sharp bite of pain keeps me present.
Keeps me from spiraling into the dark place where I imagine Nico on that operating table, his chest cracked open, doctors fighting to keep his heart beating while I sat in my crappy apartment telling myself I made the right choice.
Did I make the right choice?
I don't know anymore.
I don't know anything.
"Kristen." Nora appears in front of me, crouching down so we're at eye level. Her face is pale, drawn, but her voice is steady. "Have you eaten anything today?"
I blink at her. "What?"
"Food. When did you last eat?"
I try to remember. Lily had cereal for dinner because I couldn't bring myself to cook. Did I eat anything? I must have. I don't remember.
"I'm fine."
Nora's expression says she doesn't believe me. "Sophia went to get coffee. There's a vending machine around the corner. Let me get you something."
"I don't need—"
"You're white as a sheet and you're shaking." Her hand covers mine, warm and firm. "Let me help. Please."
The please undoes me.
My throat tightens. I nod once, jerkily, and Nora squeezes my fingers before standing. She says something to Pietro that I don't catch, then disappears down the hallway.
I pull my knees up to my chest, making myself as small as possible in the plastic chair. The position reminds me of Lily when she's scared—curled up, arms wrapped around herself, trying to disappear.
Lily.
God. What am I going to tell Lily if—
No.
I shut that thought down before it can fully form.
He's going to be fine. He has to be fine. He's Nico Sartori. He survived growing up in this family, survived whatever horrors made him the way he is.
He'll survive this too.
He has to.