Chapter 44 Marcello
Marcello
The machines had a rhythm.
Steady. Relentless. Unforgiving.
I learned it by heart over the past ten days.
Every rise. Every dip. Every breath she took that wasn’t guaranteed.
I sat beside her bed like a fixture—something that had always been there and would refuse to leave. The chair creaked every time I shifted, but I never moved far. Never enough to break contact. My hand stayed wrapped around hers, thumb brushing over her skin in slow, measured passes.
Warm. Alive. Still pulsing.
That mattered more than anything.
Samira slept now, her breathing even, her face softer than it had been when they first brought her in, near death. The bruising had faded from violent purples to dull yellows. The swelling had gone down. Her body was healing.
Slowly. Not enough.
They informed us that she could come home tomorrow.
Home.
The word sat wrong in my chest. Because home had failed her once. And I would burn the world before I let it happen again.
My gaze dropped to her hand in mine. Fragile.
Someone had put her in that position. Someone had shaped the path that led her to a man who thought breaking her was something he had the right to do.
I had already taken care of him. Slowly. Thoroughly.
It hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough. Because men like him didn’t exist in isolation. They were created. Allowed. Protected.
Her stepfather. Her stepbrother. The house she came from.
I had spent the last ten days sitting beside her bed—and planning their deaths.
It hadn’t been difficult to find them. Not with the right resources and the right level of obsession.
Tunisia.
She had lived in a village small enough to be forgotten. She had a family small enough not to be missed.
Her mother was already dead. Illness, the report explained. A quick ending. She got off easy. But the others won’t be so lucky.
“You can’t be fucking serious about leaving.”
Tone hissed the words, her voice cutting through the room.
I didn’t look up straight away. Didn’t release Samira’s hand. Instead, I tilted my head toward the door and told her in no uncertain terms to meet me outside. Which she did, reluctantly.
“She’ll be discharged tomorrow,” she reminded me when I stepped outside the room and closed the door behind me.“She’s going to wake up and not find you. She needs you, Marcello.”
I stared at her as she stood with her arms folded, eyes sharp. Unimpressed. Concerned. Angry.
“She won’t be alone,” I said.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the point,” I replied evenly. “You’ll be here. The others will be here. She’ll be safe.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You should be here.”
“I will be.”
“No,” she snapped softly. “You should be here when she wakes up in your house. When she realises she survived and she’s somewhere safe. You should be the first thing she sees.”
Something in my chest shifted. I ignored it.
“There’s something I need to finish,” I told her.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I can finish it for you.”
“No.”
The word came out flat. Final.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“Marcello, I want to finish it. You think I won’t enjoy it? You think I won’t do it properly?”
I almost smiled.
“I know you would.”
“Then let me.”
I shook my head. Adamant. This was something I needed to do on my own.
“No.”
Frustration flashed across her face.
“Why?”
Because I needed it. This wasn’t just about justice. I wanted them to see me. To understand. To feel that Samira had found someone to love her enough to teat her like the Queen she is.
“I need to be the last thing they see,” I murmured.
Her expression shifted in understanding. Dark. Heavy.
I wanted them horrified. I wanted them to know exactly why they were dying, and to understand that Samira had escaped them. That she had survived them. That while they had rotted in the same miserable corners of the world, she had found something better. Something they would never touch again.
Tone stared at me for a long moment, reading every ugly intention I made no effort to hide.
Then she exhaled through her nose and glanced toward Samira’s hospital room.
“I hate this,” Tone whispered.
“I know you do.”
“She needs you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes snapped back to mine. “You’re a selfish bastard.”
A humourless smile tugged at my mouth. “That’s never bothered me before.”
“It should now.”
“It does,” I said.
Tone went silent.
She wasn’t angry now. She was worried. For me. For what this would cost. Maybe for what it would confirm.
But I had already made the decision.
“I need you to look after her.”
Tone scoffed softly. “As if I wouldn’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“She should be stronger by the time I get back.”
Tone’s expression darkened. “Don’t stay away too long, March.”
I nodded once.
Maybe the distance would help Samira breathe without feeling watched.
Maybe it would help me return as something closer to a man she could build a life with, instead of the monster currently sitting by her side, planning murders between her heartbeats.
Maybe the distance would give us both clarity. Closure.
Or maybe it was a lie I was telling myself so I could board that jet without feeling like I was abandoning her.
Either way, I was still going.
Tone looked at me for another long second. “If you die in Tunisia after this melodramatic speech, I will kill you myself.”
That dragged a low, rough sound out of me that might have been a laugh in another life.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She pulled me into a hard, fast hug that felt more like a threat than comfort. Then she jabbed a finger into my chest, before stepping back.
“Bring your miserable ass home sooner rather than later, Marcello.”