Chapter 24 - Alessandro
Two hours, thirty-one minutes, and nine seconds since Emma last opened her eyes.
I count each breath she takes, shallow and uneven, while Dr. Castellano checks her vitals for the fourth time since he arrived. His fingers press against her wrist, measuring a pulse that feels like she's already half-gone, one foot in death's territory.
We are in the medical wing of the compound, which Marco had installed a few months ago. Too many trips to the damn hospital, too many questions from too many people. Better to keep it all in-house. And, of course, Castellano is the best doctor money can buy.
"Stable," he murmurs, but stable means nothing when she won't wake up, when her body fights a battle her mind has already surrendered.
Two hours, thirty-one minutes. Since I breathed life back into her lungs. Since she chose death over me.
The photos spread across my lap tell a horror story: Tommy's face beaten beyond recognition, blood pooling beneath his crumpled form, other inmates standing over him like it's nothing.
Horrible enough to make Emma swallow those pills.
She didn't even stop to ask why somebody sent her the photos.
The photos achieved their purpose. They broke her completely.
I reach for Emma's wrist, needing to feel her pulse myself, needing proof she's still here.
The rhythm under my fingers is threadbare, barely there, and my fingers go still as death itself, that dangerous calm before I destroy something.
This woman who learned to love my violence, who kissed my bloody knuckles, chose death over life with me.
The metallic taste of rage fills my mouth as I realize the truth that's been eating at me: I can't control this.
Can't force her to choose life. Can't protect her from the darkness inside her own mind.
Even unconscious, her body calls to mine. I trace the bruises on her hip from our last night together, these marks of possession that couldn't keep her here. Her vanilla scent fades under medical sterility, antiseptic replacing jasmine, and the loss feels like another kind of death.
Marco arrives without warning, filling Emma's sickroom doorway with barely contained fury. The weight of his Beretta presses against his ribs, visible to anyone who knows where to look.
"We need answers about our exposure," he demands, eyes taking in Emma's unconscious form with cold calculation.
"The blackmailers may be dead, but their network survives.
Someone still has evidence. The Hewsons may have gone underground but other families are noticing inconsistencies. Whatever game you're playing ends now."
I move to the side bar, needing distance from his interrogation, needing something to do with hands that want to reach for the Glock against my ribs.
The whiskey bottle hits crystal, my hands steady as a surgeon's even as violence pools in my gut.
The liquid amber fills the glass perfectly, not a drop spilled, because control is all I have left.
"The entire Rosetti empire is compromised," Marco continues, accepting the drink I offer, studying my too-calm movements.
"Your wife's secrets, whatever they are, threaten everything our father built.
Every alliance, every territory, every ounce of respect we've earned through blood.
One woman's lies could destroy three generations of power. "
He sets his glass down untouched, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. Testing me. Waiting.
"She's not Frances Hewson."
The confession tears from my throat, shatters the silence like breaking glass. Each word strips away another layer of protection, another lie that's kept her safe.
"Her name is Emma Pitt. She was their servant." The truth tastes bitter. "The Hewsons forced her to play their daughter when Frances disappeared before our wedding."
Marco goes deadly calm, the kind of stillness that precedes massacres. His hand drifts to his jacket, fingers finding the grip of his weapon.
"Explain."
Not a request. An order from the head of our family to a subordinate who's lost his mind.
"I already did," I say.
"A servant." The words come out flat, emotionless. "You married a servant girl and let her fool our entire family."
"She had no choice. They used her brother as leverage…"
"I don't care about her reasons." Marco steps toward Emma's bed, each movement deliberate. "This problem needs to be eliminated."
My hand finds my Glock before conscious thought, the metal warm from my body heat. The safety clicks off, the sound impossibly loud.
"Toccala e sei morto." Touch her and you're dead.
Marco stops, genuinely surprised by the barrel now aimed at his center mass. "You'd draw on your own blood?"
"Apparently, I would." The promise comes out steady, certain, my finger resting on the trigger guard.
We stand frozen, two brothers separated by a hospital bed and the woman who's shattered everything we thought we knew about loyalty. The moment stretches, violence hanging in the air like cordite before a firefight.
"You're choosing her over blood," Marco observes, but there's something in his voice now: understanding, maybe, or recognition of the same insanity that made him steal Valentina from her own wedding.
"Yes." Simple. Absolute.
He studies my face, sees something there that makes him step back from Emma's bed. "Father would have shot you for less."
"Father never loved anyone the way I love her."
Marco's expression shifts, decision made. "I'll keep this secret for now. But the Hewsons pay for their deception. They used our family as pawns."
The Glock returns to its holster, safety clicking back into place. "They will pay. Especially if they sent these photos. Once we understand their game completely."
"The blackmail network…"
"I don't fucking care," I say, squeezing so hard on my crystal glass that it sings. "Emma is fucking dying, here. Nothing else matters."
Marco's voice carries warning. "Every hour we wait, our enemies gather strength."
"Every hour she stays unconscious, I lose more control." The admission costs me something. "I need her awake to think clearly, to plan properly. Without her…"
Marco looks at Emma then, really looks at her. Sees the servant girl who's broken his brother so completely I'm willing to war against our own allies.
"The family meeting is tomorrow," he says finally. "If she's not awake by then, we'll need contingencies."
"If she's not awake by tomorrow, there won't be a tomorrow."
The words hang between us, not threat but promise. Marco understands: if Emma dies, I follow. The Rosetti bloodline will lose a son to one servant girl's broken heart.
After he leaves, I return to Emma's bedside, pressing my lips against her hair. The strands still smell faintly of jasmine beneath the medical scents, ghost traces of the woman who traced constellations on my chest.
"I'll find who sent those photos," I whisper against silk strands that feel too fragile. "I'll discover if Tommy's really dead or if this is another manipulation. And when I have answers, when I know who did this to you, I'll decorate the city with their skulls."
My fingers find her pulse again, still weak, still fading. Dr. Castellano says she's stable but we both know the truth: she's choosing whether to come back, and every hour she stays unconscious is another hour she chooses death over me.
The Glock's weight against my ribs isn't for protection anymore. It's for whoever tries to separate us again. Including death itself.
I slide my hand under the sheets, finding the bruises I left on her hip, pressing down until I feel her pulse flutter beneath my fingers.
Mine. Still mine. Even unconscious, her body remembers who owns it.
The marks are fading to yellow-green now, but I trace each one.
She's still here, still warm, still breathing.
I press harder against the bruise, watching her eyelids flutter, some deep part of her responding even in this darkness. Her pulse quickens under my touch, just slightly, but enough to tell me she's still in there somewhere. Still fighting whether she knows it or not.
"Every person who knew about your deception and used it against us.
Every member of the blackmail network still breathing.
Every soul who contributed to breaking you.
Every person involved in Tommy's death. Every asshole who sent you those photos.
" My mouth finds her ear, lips brushing skin that's too cold.
"They all die screaming your name until you wake up to make me stop. "