47. Antonio
47
ANTONIO
I ’ve been shot. There’s a part of my mind that’s clinically assessing the situation. Blood pours from a wound in my left shoulder, but when I flex my hand experimentally, I can move it. I’m not nauseous or sweating, and I can breathe. The bullet hasn’t hit a major organ; this is just a graze.
But a much larger part of my mind is locked in a silent scream. Because Lucia’s gown, her beautiful, golden gown, is covered in blood.
I keep reliving that awful moment over and over. The sheer horror of seeing Marco aim at Lucia, his eyes alight with malice, his hand squeezing the trigger.
She almost got shot. Because of me.
Ten years ago, Marco tried to rob Lucia at the docks, and I banished him from the city for breaking the rules. The man has every reason to hate me. I changed his pampered, privileged life in one swift, brutal stroke, tearing him from his home and his family.
But today, instead of killing me, he did the thing that would wreck me. He aimed at Lucia.
And if Marco—dull, uncurious, plodding Marco—has figured out that shooting Lucia would destroy me, what of my other enemies?
Leo warned me about this possibility weeks ago. “If you care about Lucia Petrucci, you will let her go,” he told me. “The only reason she’s in danger is because she’s with you.”
But I didn’t listen to him. In my hubris, in my greed, I thought I could protect her. I thought—foolishly—that if I spent enough money and bought every building in her neighborhood, she would be safe.
I know better now. It’s taken her almost dying for me to understand that I was wrong. It’s taken seeing her covered in blood for me to realize how selfish I’ve been.
But this is not a mistake I’ll make again.
Lucia is crouched next to me, her face pale. Tears brim in her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She hates blood, I remember. Hates hospitals. She’s probably not too fond of guns either—when her mother died, her father shot himself. And this is bringing all those awful memories to the fore.
She’s the woman I love, and I’m putting her in harm’s way and re-traumatizing her.
Good job, Antonio.
“It’s fine,” I mutter thickly. “Just a scratch.” Carlo is kneeling on the other side of me, applying pressure to the wound and screaming something into his phone. Lost in my own fog, I didn’t even see him approach me. The room swims in and out of view, and I shake my head, trying to clear it. “It’s fine,” I repeat, gritting my teeth against the pain. “Nothing to worry about.”
My stomach is churning, and I feel on the verge of passing out. Shock, probably. My body’s reaction is annoying. The bullet barely grazed me—there’s no reason for theatrics.
“Lucia,” I start. “I. . .” My voice trails off. What is there to say? This is my life. All I have to offer her is blood and tears.
“Don’t talk,” she whispers. “It’s okay. Simon’s called for an ambulance.”
“I don’t want. . .” I grope for her hand. She’s so warm. So alive.
And if she’s to stay that way, I have to let her go.
With superhuman effort, I force myself to my feet and look at her, drinking her in for the last time. “You need to go.”
She doesn’t even register my words; she’s so worried about me. “Antonio,” she whispers, her soft hand in mine. “You’re bleeding. Please sit until the medics get here.”
I knew from the start that I shouldn’t get involved with her. But over and over, I made excuses for myself. I hid from the truth and I tried to ignore the risks.
But her gown is stained with my blood, and I can’t ignore it any longer. I can’t be with Lucia. Her heart might break from my decision, but she’ll be alive, and that’s all that matters.
And your own heartbreak?
Pain is a wild animal clawing my insides. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap.
Shock slaps her face at my tone.
Cold and vicious, that’s what I have to be. “Yes, I got shot, and you know why? Because of you. You’re a distraction, Lucia. You’ve been a distraction from the moment you got here. I’m so preoccupied with you that I’m not doing what I need to do. I’m not keeping the streets of Venice safe. Your presence is endangering my life and the life of everyone else around me.”
Each word lands with the precision of a dagger. I know exactly how to hurt Lucia, after all. I know the perfect weapons to use because she trusted me enough to open herself up to me. She told me she felt responsible for her parents’ deaths, and I’m hitting that same bruised spot by telling her she’s the cause of my wound.
She handed me the key to her heart. And instead of cherishing it forever, I’m the bastard who’s taking that precious gift and smashing it to pieces.
Dante’s here—when did he get here?—and he looks aghast. But I’m not looking at my second-in-command. I only have eyes for Lucia.
She sucks in a horrified breath. “Antonio,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and there’s so much agony on her face that I know this moment will never leave her. She stretches a trembling hand toward me, and my heart shatters. With every fiber of my being, I want to put my arms around her, cradling her against my body and begging for forgiveness. “You don’t mean that. . .”
I turn away.
She doesn’t react, not for a long moment, until finally, she gets up and leaves. I hear the door close behind her.
Her absence opens a void inside my heart. A raw, raging void of pain. “Follow her,” I order Carlo. “Make sure she gets home safely.”
Dante stares at me, comprehension starting to dawn in his eyes. “Is that why?—”
But the pizzeria is growing fuzzy. Gray dots swim at the edge of my vision, clouding my sight. The void expands to take control over me. My knees buckle, and I collapse.
And then I feel nothing.