Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Pain wakes me first.
It’s a deep persistent ache that sits in my side and radiates outward with every breath, a reminder that I got stabbed and survived and my body is not particularly happy about either part of that equation.
Well, shit.
I open my eyes slowly.
The ceiling comes into focus, familiar and wrong at the same time because this isn't my room, and it takes me a second to place where I am.
The sitting room. Still on the couch. Morning light coming through the windows in pale grey streams that suggest it is early, maybe six or seven, the kind of light that hasn't decided yet if it's committing to the day.
I turn my head carefully.
Oh, my Angel.
Isabella is asleep in the chair beside me.
She's curled up at an angle that's going to make her neck hurt when she wakes, her head resting on her arm on the chair's armrest, her other hand stretched out toward me like she fell asleep reaching for me.
Her face is soft in sleep, peaceful in a way it hasn't been while awake for days, and I can see the tracks of old tears on her cheeks, dried salt lines that catch the morning light.
She stayed.
All night, probably. Sitting in that chair watching me breathe, making sure I didn't stop.
I need to move. My bladder is making that extremely clear, and lying still is starting to make the ache in my side worse instead of better.
I push myself up slowly, careful not to jar the wound, but the movement pulls at the stitches and sends a fresh wave of pain through me that I breathe through with gritted teeth.
Isabella doesn't wake.
I get my feet under me, stand, testing my balance, and the world tilts slightly but holds.
Good enough. I move toward the bathroom down the hall, each step deliberate and measured, and I'm aware of exactly how much blood I lost yesterday by how weak my legs feel, how much effort it takes to do something as simple as walking.
The bathroom is a relief in multiple ways.
I take care of necessities and then look at myself in the mirror and immediately wish I hadn't.
I look like death. Pale and drawn, dark circles under my eyes, the bandage around my torso white and stark against skin that's gone the particular grey color of significant blood loss.
I lift the edge of the bandage carefully and check the wound.
Still closed, no fresh bleeding, the stitches holding.
It looks angry and inflamed but not infected.
I'll live.
I splash water on my face and try to feel more human but fail completely, and then I make my way back to the sitting room because staying upright much longer seems ambitious.
Isabella is awake.
She's sitting up in the chair now, looking at the empty couch with wide-eyed panic.
"Isabella…" I say quietly.
She turns, sees me and the relief that crosses her face is so naked and unguarded it makes my chest tight.
Fuck, I can’t let her go. I cannot watch her get married to someone else.
It’d kill me… and the person.
Then she's up and moving, I barely have time to brace before she hits me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressing into my chest, and the impact sends pain lancing through my side but I don't care, I wrap my arms around her and hold on.
I take a deep breath despite the pain, her sweet scent fills my nostril and I have to stop myself from physically reacting.
I’ve missed her so much.
"You're okay," she says into my shirt, and her voice is muffled and shaking. "You're okay, you're awake, you're—"
"I'm okay," I confirm quietly, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head. "I'm right here."
She pulls back just enough to look up at me and her eyes are wet, tears already spilling over, running down her cheeks unchecked.
"I was so scared," she whispers. "There was so much blood and you wouldn't wake up and I thought—" Her voice breaks. "I thought you were going to die."
"I'm not dying." I wipe her tears with my thumb. "I'm too stubborn to die. You know that."
She laughs, watery and genuine, then she pulls my face down to hers and kisses me, I kiss her back, despite the weakness in my legs, despite the fact that we're standing in the sitting room where anyone could walk in.
I kiss her like I'm proving something to both of us.
That I'm alive. That I came back. That I kept my promise.
She tastes like salt and relief, when we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Don't ever do that again," she says fiercely. "Don't ever scare me like that again Enzo, or I’ll kill you."
I chuckle and wince. "I'll try my best."
"That's not good enough."
"It's the best I can offer." I rest my forehead against hers. "I can't promise I won't get hurt. Not in this life. But I can promise I'll always fight like hell to come back to you."
I will, I’ll do anything to get back to her.
She nods against me, her hands fist in my shirt and we stand there holding each other in the early morning light.
For one perfect moment everything is exactly where it should be.
The door slams open.
We don't have time to separate.
Matteo comes through the doorway like a storm given human form, his face dark with fury, his eyes locked on the two of us standing there wrapped around each other, and I watch him process what he's seeing, watch the confirmation of what he suspected land and solidify into certainty and rage.
"Get away from her." His voice is low and deadly calm, which is somehow worse than if he were shouting.
I don't move.
"I said get the fuck away from my sister!”
Isabella starts to turn toward him but I shift, putting myself more squarely between them, and Matteo's eyes track the movement with sharp attention.
"Matteo—" Isabella starts.
He crosses the room in three strides, reaches past me, and pulls Isabella away with enough force that she stumbles back, and then his hand is on my chest shoving me backward.
I let him.
I let him push me back until I hit the wall and then his fist connects with my jaw, controlled and precise, hitting hard enough to make my head snap sideways but not hard enough to do real damage, nowhere near my wound.
"You fucking bastard," he says, and his voice is shaking with barely controlled fury. "You goddamn bastard, touching my little sister."
I don't defend myself. I don't block. I just take it, tasting blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek, and I look at him and wait for the next one.
"Matteo, please stop!" Isabella's voice, sharp and desperate.
She moves toward us and I hold up one hand without looking at her.
"Stay back, Isabella."
"He hit you—"
"I know. Stay back."
"Enzo—"
“Please." I keep my eyes on Matteo. "I deserve this. Let him have it."
Matteo's fist is still clenched, ready for another strike, and he's looking at me with an expression I've never seen directed at me before.
Betrayal.
"You've been touching my sister," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Behind my back. While I fucking trusted you. While I put her safety in your hands and you—" He stops, his jaw working. "You've been putting your hands on my baby sister and lying to my fucking face about it."
"I’m sorry.”
That’s all I can say. After days of thinking of how I’d tell him, planning pathetic excuses.
All I can say is ‘sorry’.
"You’re sorry??” He laughs. “I will not have this conversation here, both of you meet me in my study right now."
"Matteo—" Isabella starts.
"Now, Isabella." He looks at me. "You too, Bianchi. And if you try to run or make excuses or fucking lie to me, I will put you in the ground and have no fucking regrets about it. Understand?"
"Understood."
He turns and walks out, leaving the door open behind him, the implicit command clear.
Follow me.
I turn to Isabella.
Her face is pale and tear-streaked, furious and scared all at once, I reach out and take her hand.
"It's going to be okay," I say quietly.
It’s definitely not going to be okay.