Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Iwake alone in Damiano's bed, my hand instinctively reaching for his warmth and finding only cold sheets.
The events of yesterday crash over me in waves—Byron's death, the warehouse, Lucrezia's condition.
My fingers drift to my stomach, to the tiny life growing inside me.
A life created in spite of all this violence and pain.
I dress quickly and head downstairs, finding Ginerva in the kitchen. Her face looks drawn, the lines around her eyes deeper than usual.
"Has Damiano returned?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Not yet, signora." She presses a steaming mug of ginger tea into my hands.
The kindness in her gesture almost undoes me. "Thank you."
"Enzo called. He's at the hospital with Lucrezia. She's awake now."
My heart twists. "I need to see her."
Daniel drives me to the hospital, his silence a blessing as I prepare myself for what lies ahead. What do you say to someone who's been through what Lucrezia has? What comfort can I possibly offer?
The hospital corridor stretches endlessly before me, the antiseptic smell making my stomach roll. I take several deep breaths, fighting back the nausea that's become my constant companion.
When I reach Lucrezia's room, I hesitate at the doorway, watching her through the glass. Enzo sits beside her bed, his large frame hunched over in a chair too small for him. He looks up, spots me, and nods once before rising to leave the room.
"She's been asking for you," he murmurs as he passes me.
I step inside, my heart breaking at what I see. Lucrezia lies in the hospital bed, looking small and fragile against the stark white sheets. Her eyes, once so full of life, are now distant and haunted. As she turns to look at me, I feel my throat constrict with emotion.
"Hey," I whisper, approaching slowly. "Is it okay if I sit?"
She nods, and I take the chair beside her bed, unsure if I should touch her, if she can bear any contact now.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words woefully inadequate. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."
Lucrezia's gaze shifts to the window, where morning light filters through half-closed blinds. "Not your fault," she says, her voice raw, barely audible.
"It is. If I hadn't involved you—"
"No." Her eyes meet mine, a flicker of her old determination sparking through the emptiness. "Byron did this. Not you."
I reach out slowly, placing my hand on the bed near hers, not touching, just offering. After a moment, she moves her fingers until they brush against mine.
I squeeze Lucrezia's hand gently, careful not to startle her. "How are you feeling today?" It's a stupid question, but I don't know what else to say.
She looks down at our hands. "Like I'm floating outside my body. The doctors gave me something." Her voice sounds distant, detached. "They say I can go home tomorrow."
"That's good."
"Is it?" Her eyes meet mine, filled with uncertainty. "I don't know how to be me anymore."
The raw honesty in her words breaks something inside me. Lucrezia has always been authentic—vibrant, passionate, real. To see her questioning her own identity tears at my heart.
"Whatever you need, I'm here," I promise. "We all are."
She nods, tears gathering in her eyes. "Has Damiano been here?"
I hesitate. "Not since last night. I think... I think he's dealing with things his own way."
She understands immediately what I'm not saying. "The men who did this."
"Yes."
Lucrezia takes a shaky breath. "Good."
I spend another hour with Lucrezia, mostly sitting in silence, letting her know she's not alone. When Enzo returns with coffee, I take it as my cue to leave, promising to visit tomorrow.
Daniel waits for me in the lobby, his face impassive as always. The drive back to the mansion passes in silence until my phone buzzes with a text from Damiano: Home in twenty.
When I arrive, I find Damiano in the kitchen, wearing fresh clothes but looking exhausted. Dark shadows hang beneath his eyes, and though he's showered, I notice his knuckles are raw and bruised. I don't ask what he did. I already know.
"How is she?" he asks, voice rough.
"Lucrezia's coming home tomorrow. She's... she's trying."
He nods once, then pulls me against his chest. I sink into his embrace, drawing strength from his solid warmth.
"Tell me about Scarlett," he says suddenly.
I pull back, surprised. "What?"
"Your friend. The one who helped you. I want to know about her."
We move to the living room, settling on the sofa with cups of tea.
"Scarlett's the closest thing to family I've had since my father died," I admit.
"She's a nurse at Mount Sinai now. She's always been the practical one while I'm..." I trail off, not sure how to describe myself anymore.
"The one who married a mafia boss to avenge her father?" Damiano suggests, his mouth quirking up at one corner.
I can't help but laugh. "Something like that." I squeeze his hand. "Scarlett's stayed with me through everything."
"I'd like to meet her," Damiano says, surprising me again.
I study his face, searching for signs of distrust or calculation, but find none. Just genuine interest.
"I'd like that," I say softly.
I glance at Damiano's face, taking in the harsh lines etched by exhaustion. The last hours have been hell for him—for all of us. The warehouse, Lucrezia, Byron's confession, everything crashing down at once.
"You need to get some sleep," I say softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. "When was the last time you actually slept?"
His jaw tightens under my palm. "I tried before you came back from the hospital, but..." He shakes his head. "Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lucrezia in that warehouse."
The raw pain in his voice makes my chest ache.
"We need to try again," I tell him, taking his hand and standing. "I need sleep too. The baby needs it." I can't explain how easy it is to me saying so. Like I was pregnant my entire life.
At the mention of our child, something softens in his expression. He nods and follows me without resistance.
We don't bother changing, just kick off our shoes and sink into the bed together. I curl against him, my head on his chest, his arm around me.
"Just close your eyes," I whisper. "I'm here."
The steady thump of his heart beneath my ear gradually slows. His breathing deepens. Within minutes, he's asleep, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion.
I remain awake, watching him. In sleep, the hard lines of his face ease. The permanent furrow between his brows smooths out. He looks younger, almost peaceful. My fingers ghost over the tattoo on his neck.
Just days ago, I would have seen this vulnerability as an opportunity—a weakness to exploit in my mission to destroy him. Now, I only feel protective. I want to shield him from nightmares, from the ghosts that haunt him.
The man Byron taught me to hate doesn't exist. Or maybe he does, but he's only one part of Damiano—the part he shows the world to keep his family safe. The real Damiano is here, sleeping beside me, trusting me enough to let his guard down completely.