Chapter 16
Dante
Silence.
Not peace. Not calm.
Just the kind of silence that comes after a storm has ripped the roof clean off your life.
Luka’s blood runs into my wife’s veins now.
Her body’s so still it doesn’t seem real, not even as the monitor beeps quietly beside her.
The doctor stitched her arm. Her forehead too. I watched every pass of the needle like it was going through my own fucking skin.
Everyone’s gone now. I made sure of it the moment she was stable.
Didn’t matter if they were her blood, her brothers, her father, her so called family.
She needs quiet. Peace.
Nothing else.
I even sent Mattia to bed.
It’s morning now, but the boy hasn’t closed his eyes since the moment I found her on the bathroom floor, unconscious, covered in blood.
He heard the commotion, of course. He was tested just like the rest of us, to see if he could be a match.
But I wouldn’t allow him in the room. Not while she was still bleeding. Not while she looked like that.
He’s witnessed far too much already.
Later, once the doctor had finally closed her wounds and I’d finished wiping the blood from her skin, he entered, quiet, composed in that way only he can be, and took his usual seat, silently watching her.
There was a quiet devastation in his eyes, worn and heavy with worry. This has taken its toll on him too.
When he began to yawn, I told him she would want him to rest, that when she wakes, he should be able to greet her with a smile.
He didn’t protest. That alone speaks volumes. He’s utterly spent.
Leonardo took Luka back to the east wing, and locked the door. I still don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do with that boy. The Albanians want him back. There’s pressure from every side to hand him over.
But I can’t think clearly.
And this, this is precisely why I never believed in relationships.
I used to watch men take wives, have children, and wonder how the fuck they thought they could survive in our world burdened with that kind of weakness.
A wife? A child? One misstep, one lapse in judgement, and they’re both gone. You don’t think rationally with something that precious on the line. You can’t.
I used to think those men were fools, reckless, pathetic, soft. And maybe they were. Still are.
But then I met her.
And now I don’t give a fuck. I’ve become just as compromised, just as fucking blind. A liability, tethered to the one person who could ruin me. And yet, I wouldn’t trade a single second with Harlow for all the calculated detachment and flawless strategy in the world.
I’d sell my fucking soul if it meant she wakes up.
I sit in the armchair beside our bed, the one Mattia vacated, my fingers wrapped around her limp hand. Her skin’s still too pale, and her pulse is weak, but it’s there. I hold on to it like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this earth.
The smell of blood still lingers, metallic, heavy in the air. Bianca tried to come in to clean the room, but I didn’t let her.
I release Harlow’s hand, slowly, and rise to my feet. She looks so small lying there. Too still. Too silent.
Seeing her like this again—unconscious, broken, is unbearable.
My jaw tightens. My hands curl into fists.
I need to move. I need to do something. Anything.
I step into the bathroom. The pool of blood is still there, dark and thick against the white tile.
I grab a towel and drop to my knees.
Scrubbing.
Wiping.
I need something to fight. Some way to burn off the fury building in my chest.
I clean the trail back to the bed, wiping the floor like I’m erasing a fucking crime scene.
By the time I’m finished, I’m soaked in sweat. My temples are pounding. I need a shower.
I leave the bathroom door open so I’ll hear if Harlow stirs.
I catch my reflection in the fractured mirror above the sink. I look exactly how I feel, barely standing.
I rip the mirror off the wall, and set it down beside the bin. Carefully.
Then I start looking, in the drawers, cabinets, behind the toilet.
I find everything that could be a threat.
Razors. Glass. Sharp edges.
Even the nail scissors. I pile it all beside the mirror. Later, I’ll get rid of it. Burn it all if I have to.
Once I’m certain there’s nothing left in this room that could hurt my wife, I undress and step into the shower. The water pounds against my shoulders, cold and hard, but I barely register it.
I don’t linger.
I dry off quickly, pull on a plain grey set of pyjamas and a t-shirt.
There’s work waiting, calls to return, fires to put out, problems piling up like they always do. But Mario and Leonardo can handle it. There isn’t a force in this world that could pull me from her side now.
I walk back to the bed. Slide in beside her, careful not to disturb her IV line.
Sunlight pours through the curtains, casting soft gold over her face. She looks like a painting. Too beautiful.
I can’t stop looking at her. I count her breaths.
One. Two. Three.
Then I find her pulse again, my thumb pressed gently to the inside of her wrist.
I count that too.
Over and over.
There’s no way I’m sleeping.
Not today. Not this week.
Not until she opens her eyes and looks at me again.
I will watch over her.
I will chase away every last fucking demon that dares come near her.