59. Luna
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
LUNA
The blade presses against my belly, a sting that turns into a burn. I don’t look down. Don’t let him see me blink. A warm trickle threads down my skin, pooling in the dip of my navel. Just a scratch, I tell myself, but my eyes lock onto Nico’s.
He’s bleeding, and his face is a mess of rage and fear. But his gaze? Determined. A light in the dark. Hold on , it says.
Nico snarls, raw and ragged, the board screeching against concrete. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Papa leans into the razor. The bite deepens. My breath hitches, but I don’t drop Nico’s stare. His jaw clenches, veins corded in his neck like he’s absorbing the pain for me. Blood drips from his split lip, mirroring the bead rolling down my stomach.
“Look at her,” Papa hisses, holding up the blade. “You wanted to be king. But was it worth the crown, if it cost you your child?”
Nico doesn’t waver. Doesn’t look away. His eyes burn into mine. Fury forged into something indestructible. I’m here , that stare says. I’m here, and I’ll burn this fucking place down.
My voice trembles, shaking with rage. “You’re not my father. You’re a monster!”
The door suddenly explodes inward, tearing through the madness. Nico doesn’t even blink. His eyes are still locked on mine, but his lips move: barely more than a breath. “They’re here.”
Mateo bursts through the smoke, sweeping the room with practiced eyes—but all I see is him. The man strapped to that board.
“Get her the fuck out of here, she’s hurt,” Nico rasps, voice shredded from choking.
Mateo is a phantom in tactical gear and lethal grace. His gaze locks on mine, and for a heartbeat, the chaos stills. His eyes aren’t the cool, controlled slate I remember; they’re on fire.
I try to speak, but dust coats my tongue. My vision blurs as the ropes bite deeper into my skin. I sag against the chair with a whimper lodged in my throat, but I swallow it.
Weakness could get him killed.
The blade flashes, sawing through the bindings at my ankles, my wrists. His gloves are rough against my skin, but his touch is kind.
The ropes snap free. Agony erupts as blood rushes back into my arms, and I choke back a cry. His arm hooks around my waist before I collapse, hauling me against his Kevlar. I can feel the hammer of his heartbeat through the gear.
“Luna,” he says, “you’re bleeding. Stay with me.” I blink down, the ache registers a second later, dull and distant beneath the adrenaline.
“It’s fine,” I clutch at Mateo’s vest. “Nico.”
He’s still strapped down, bleeding, and I have to get to him.
“I see him.” Mateo’s voice stays calm, but he’s already moving, and I freeze.
Beyond the smoke, I catch a glimpse. Massimo is already crouched at Nico’s side, cutting through his restraints. Mateo pulls me back, keeping me upright as my head spins.
“He’s alive, Luna. We’re getting him out.”
The shackles clatter loose. He rolls off the board, collapsing to his knees. For a heartbeat, he stays there, trembling, his back a tapestry of lash marks. Then he rises.
Nico growls, a feral, gut-wrenching sound.
“Mateo, get her the fuck out of here, now.” Blood slides down his chest, his legs, pooling at his bare feet. His left arm hangs limp, fingers mangled.
And when Massimo tries to help him, he shoves him away, of course he does. He refuses to lean on anyone, not even when he can barely stand, because losing control is worse than breaking. Worse than dying. He’d rather collapse than admit he needs saving.
“Nico!”
“I said go.” He staggers forward, using the wall for balance. “I’m right behind you.”
He’s lying. I see it in the way his pupils dilate, shock leaching the color from his face. But pride stands in his way.
Massimo clears the hallway, firing two-handed. “Stairs! Now!”
Nico sways, but when Mateo tries reaching for him, he jerks back. “Don’t.” His glare could kill. “I’m fine.”
He’s delusional but alive.
We stumble into the corridor. Nico leans into the wall, each step a burden, but he doesn’t fall. Doesn’t stop.
I want to scream. To kiss him. To shake him.
Until a bullet ricochets near my head. Mateo slams me against the wall, his body shielding mine. Plaster rains down as he presses closer, his heartbeat galloping against my cheek.
Then, Nico’s voice, raw and wrecked. “Give me a goddamn gun.”
Mateo reaches over his shoulder and shoves the weapon into Nico’s waiting grip.
And now he’s unarmed.
My pulse spikes. No.
I claw at Mateo’s vest. “Nico has the gun, but you still need to fight. I’m fine.”
Before Mateo can answer, Nico growls through gritted teeth. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
When Mateo moves, my knees threaten to give. Nico’s arm wraps around me and he presses me against the wall. His heartbeat thrums against my cheek, too fast, too shallow.
I choke on a breath as my hands slide through the blood, warm and slick across his skin. He’s alive. We almost died. I press closer, his grip tightening like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like letting go isn’t an option.
The gunfire hasn’t stopped. We’re not safe. But we exist only in each other's hold for this breath: this sliver of time.
“We need to move, Boss,” Mateo warns as he reaches down to grab a gun strapped to his ankle.
“Wait… for Massimo.”
“We don’t have?—”
Nico glares at me. “Trust me.”
I don’t. Not when his blood slicks my palms. Not when his legs tremble. But I don’t argue because his pride is the last bridge between him and oblivion.
Mateo roars from ahead. “Clear! Go!”
Nico pushes me forward, his hand a brand between my shoulder blades. We stagger into the open, his body angled to take any bullet meant for me.
A D’Angelo soldier lunges from a doorway. Nico disarms him with a brutal twist, slams the man’s skull into the wall, and seizes his rifle, one-handed. He fires three rounds down the hall without blinking.
“Stairs,” he orders, jerking his chin.
I grab the dead man’s knife. “After you.”
He snarls but doesn’t argue, his limp worsening with each step. The staircase ahead is littered with bodies. Nico grips the banister, holding himself up, his teeth bared in a silent scream.
Halfway down the stairs, his knee buckles.
I catch him under the arm, my fingers sinking into sweat-drenched muscle. “Let me?—”
“Don’t.” He shakes me off, knuckles white on the railing. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a liar.”
“And you’re distracting.” He staggers, each step a victory.
The first-floor landing is a graveyard of cement and gore. Soldiers and D’Angelo’s alike sprawl in pools of their own blood.
Nico scans the warehouse, his Glock trembling in his grip. “Down the hall to the left is the service exit.”
A subtle movement in the shadows turns my head.
Mateo fires first. The man drops, but the shot draws others. Boots pounding, shouts in guttural Italian.
“Run,” Nico grits, shoving me ahead.
We sprint, him leaning into Mateo as our feet echo off the walls. Blood drips from his fingertips, marking our trail.
The exit door is fifty feet away.
Forty.
Thirty.
A shot rings out. Nico jerks, a bullet grazes his thigh.
He crashes into me, twisting mid-fall, his elbow absorbing the impact. Mateo rages hellfire behind us.
“Go,” he rasps, pushing me toward the door.
“Not without you!” I haul him up, his arm slung over my shoulders. Bullets mutilate the doorframe as we burst into the courtyard. Massimo is in the driver’s seat, revving the engine.
“Move!” he shouts.
Nico collapses into the backseat, dragging me on top of him. His hands instantly fist in my hair. His breath hot against my lips. “Still here,” he gasps.
I press into the curve of his throat, chasing his pulse. “Barely.”
Mateo jumps in front, and the SUV rockets forward just as Nico’s eyes flutter shut. But his lips curve.
He’s alive.