Chapter 19 Damon
The hunting cabin hasn't been used in years, but it's dry which is all we need right now. One room with a stone fireplace, a few pieces of old furniture, and windows that give us clear sightlines in all directions.
Viviana helps me check the perimeter while I try to ignore the throbbing in my arm. The cut has stopped bleeding, but it's going to need proper cleaning and stitching.
"It's secure," she says, coming back from checking the eastern approach. "No signs anyone's been here recently."
"We'll stay here tonight, then move out at first light. There’s another safe house about fifty miles north."
She nods, but I can see exhaustion in every line of her body. The adrenaline from our escape is wearing off, leaving her shaky and pale.
"Sit," I tell her, pointing to the old couch. "Rest."
"I'm fine."
"You're running on adrenaline which means you’ll crash hard soon. Sit."
She doesn't argue this time, sinking onto the couch like her legs won't hold her anymore. I start building a fire, partly for warmth but mostly to give myself something to do with my hands while I try to process what happened this morning.
We almost died. Both of us.
If I'd been thirty seconds slower getting to that window, if Viviana had frozen instead of moving, if any one of a dozen things had gone differently, we'd be dead right now.
The thought makes something violent twist in my chest.
"Damon?"
"What?"
"You're bleeding through the bandage."
I look down at my arm. She's right, there's fresh blood seeping through the fabric she wrapped around the cut.
"It's nothing serious."
"Let me look at it."
There's no point arguing with her when she gets that tone, so I sit beside her on the couch and let her unwrap the makeshift bandage. The cut is deeper than I thought, and definitely needs stitches.
"This is bad," she says, examining the wound. "You need a doctor."
"No, we can’t risk a doctor. It needs to be cleaned and closed. You can do that."
"No way! I don't know how to stitch up a cut."
"I'll talk you through it."
She looks at me like I've lost my mind. "You want me to perform surgery on you?"
"It's not surgery. It's basic field medicine."
"I can’t."
"There's a first aid kit in the cabinet by the sink. Should have everything we need. Go get it."
She finds the kit and brings it back, along with a bottle of whiskey she discovered on a shelf.
"This is going to hurt," she warns, opening a package of antiseptic wipes.
"I know, but don’t worry, I've had worse."
She starts cleaning the wound, her touch careful but thorough. I watch her face as she works, the way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating, how her hair falls forward to frame her face.
"There," she says finally. "Clean as I can get it. Now what?"
"Now you stitch it up. It’s no different than sewing."
"I don't think—"
"Viviana. Look at me."
She meets my eyes, and I see the fear there. Not fear of the blood or the wound, but fear of hurting me.
"You can do this," I tell her. "I trust you. It doesn’t need to be pretty."
"What if I mess up?"
"You won't."
She picks up the needle and thread from the first aid kit. "I’m ready. Tell me what to do."
I talk her through it step by step – how to thread the needle, how to pinch the edges of the cut together, how to make small, even stitches. Her hands shake at first, but she steadies as she goes, focusing completely on the task.
"Like this?" she asks, making her third stitch.
"Perfect. You're a natural."
"I feel like I'm going to throw up any minute."
"Don't throw up on my arm."
That gets a small laugh out of her, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. She finishes the last few stitches with more confidence, then sits back to examine her work.
"Not bad for my first time," she says.
She starts cleaning up the medical supplies, moving with the kind of nervous energy that comes after a crisis.
"Damon, back at the house, when the attack started... you could have left me."
"No, I couldn't have."
"You could have. It would have been easier to get out alone."
"Viviana—"
"Why didn't you?"
The question hits deeper than it should. Because the honest answer isn't something I'm ready to say out loud. The honest answer is that the thought of leaving her never even occurred to me.
"Because I gave your father my word to protect you."
"Is that the only reason?"
I look at her sitting there on the old couch, her clothes dirty and torn, her hair messed up from our escape, and she's still the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.
"No," I admit. "That's not the only reason."
"What's the other reason?"
"Because the thought of something happening to you makes me want to kill everyone who might be a threat to you. Because somewhere between protecting you and arguing with you and fucking you, you became someone I can't walk away from."
She shifts closer on the couch, her knee brushing against mine. "And that scares you."
"Terrifies me. And completely screws up everything I thought I knew about myself."
"Because of your family?"
"Because of everything. Your family, my family, the life I've built, the responsibilities I have. All of it."
"And if none of that mattered? If it was just you and me?"
I think about that. About what it would be like to have a normal life with her. To wake up next to her every morning without worrying about who might try to kill us. To take her out to dinner, introduce her to friends, plan a future that doesn't involve bulletproof windows and escape routes.
"If it was only you and me," I say finally, "I'd never let you go. You're everything I never knew I wanted. But wanting something and being able to have it are two different things."
"Are they?"
"In our world? Yeah."
"Maybe we could change our world."
"How?"
"I don't know. But there has to be a way."
"Viviana—"
"There has to be. Because I can't go back to pretending this doesn't matter. I can't go back to my old life and act like meeting you didn't change everything."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'm willing to fight for this. Whatever this is. Are you?"
The question hangs between us, tempting and impossible.
"You don't know what you're asking. You’re not old enough to truly understand the realities of our world."
"I know exactly what I'm asking. I'm asking you to choose me."
"Choosing you means losing everything else."
"And choosing everything else means losing me. Which one can you live with?"
I stare at her, this brave, impossible woman who's asking me to risk everything for something that might not even be possible.
"I don't know," I admit.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now."
She nods slowly, and I can see disappointment flicker across her face before she hides it.
"Okay. I understand."
"Do you?"
"You have responsibilities. A life. I get it."
"That's not—"
"It's fine, Damon. Really."
But I can see it's not fine. I can see that my hesitation hurt her.
"It's not about not wanting you," I say. “It's about not knowing how to have you without destroying both our lives."
"Maybe some things are worth destroying your life for."
We stare at each other across the small space between us, both of us recognizing that we've hit an impasse. She wants me to choose her over everything else. I want to find a way to choose her without losing everything else.
Maybe we're both asking for the impossible.
"We should get some sleep," I say finally. "Long day tomorrow."
"Yeah. We should."
But neither of us moves. We sit there on the old couch, the fire crackling in the grate, both of us thinking about choices and consequences and the space between wanting something and being able to have it.
"Damon?"
"Yeah?"
"When you figure out what you want to do, let me know."
"And if I can't figure it out?"
"Then I'll figure it out for both of us."
Her threat is unmistakable. Viviana Bonacci is done waiting for other people to make decisions about her life.
Which should probably terrify me.
Instead, it makes me want her more.
We spend the night at the cabin, taking turns keeping watch while the other sleeps. My arm throbs steadily, but Viviana's stitches hold. By dawn, I know we can't stay here much longer. We’re too exposed, too far from backup if the Vergas track us down.
I pull out my encrypted phone and dial Tommy's number.
"Boss? Where the hell are you? We've been trying to reach you since the attack."
"Safe house one is compromised. We're at the cabin. Need immediate extraction and medical supplies."
"Copy that. Sending a team now. ETA forty minutes."
"Make sure they're not followed."
"Already running counter-surveillance. You hurt?"
I glance at Viviana, who's dozed off on the couch despite trying to stay alert. "Nothing fatal. But we need a new location. Somewhere more secure."
"Got just the place. Safe house two, up north by the lake. Fully stocked, better security system."
"Good. And Tommy? This goes nowhere near the family. Just us."
A pause. "Understood, boss."
Almost an hour later, I hear the low rumble of engines approaching. Two black SUVs emerge from the tree line, Tommy in the lead vehicle with Timo and Enea, the second car carrying medical supplies and tactical gear.
"Time to go," I tell Viviana, helping her gather our few belongings.
She looks back at the cabin as we climb into Tommy's SUV. "Think we'll ever come back here?"
"No, we won’t," I say, settling beside her as Tommy pulls away. "But it served its purpose."
"What was its purpose?"
I think about our conversation by the fire, about the choice she's asking me to make, about the future that seems both impossible and inevitable.
"It kept us alive long enough to figure out what comes next."
The drive to the next safe house takes two hours through back roads and forest paths that don't appear on any map. By the time we arrive, I've made my decision.
Whatever it costs, whatever it takes, I'm done running from what this is.