Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Gia
The world is a blurred smear of grey concrete and the copper-tang of blood.
"Get the stretcher! Move, move, move!"
The shouting is distant, like I’m underwater, but the weight of Rafael against the SUV is very real.
He’s heavy—all solid bone and dying momentum.
His right hand is still clamped around my wrist, his grip so tight it’s going to leave bruises, but I don't care. I want the bruises. I want anything that proves he’s still here, still tethered to this side of life.
"Boss, you have to let her go, let us take you," Luca says, his voice urgent as two medics in gear rush forward with a collapsible gurney.
Rafael’s head is lolling, his skin the color of wet ash, but when the medics reach for him, he snarls.
It’s a low, weak sound, but it’s enough to make them pause.
He forces his eyes open—glassy, green voids—and fixes them on me.
His breathing is a wet, shallow rattle that makes my stomach do a slow, sick roll.
"Gia," he rasps.
"I'm here," I say, my voice cracking like dry wood. I step into his space, ignoring the medic who tries to nudge me back. I grab his face, my hands immediately coming away slick and red. "I'm right here, Rafael. I’m fine. You hear me? Not a scratch. Look at me."
He studies me for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity.
He looks at my face, my shoulders, my chest, searching for the hole that was meant for me.
Only when he’s satisfied that I’m intact does the last of the strength leave his frame.
His shoulders finally slump, and he sways, his knees buckling.
"Okay," he whispers, the word barely a breath.
The medics catch him before he hits the gravel.
They hoist him onto the stretcher, their hands moving with clinical speed, cutting away the ruined silk of his black shirt.
I watch, paralyzed, as the exit wound on his shoulder is revealed—a jagged, weeping mouth of red that seems to be drinking the light.
"Mrs. Caruso, we need to move," Luca says, his hand on my elbow. He’s pushing me toward the backup SUV, his eyes scanning the perimeter as the Brotherhood soldiers finish securing the yard.
"I’m going with him," I say, digging my heels into the dirt.
"It’s not safe—"
"I don't care about safe, Luca! I’m getting in that ambulance or I’m driving myself, but I am not leaving him." I glare at him, my stubbornness rising up like a shield. "Try to stop me and see what happens. I dare you."
Luca looks at the blood on my dress—Rafael’s blood—and then at the fire in my eyes. He sighs, a short, sharp sound. "Get in. But stay low."
The drive is a nightmare of sirens and the smell of antiseptic.
We aren't going to a public hospital. The Brotherhood has its own facilities—private clinics tucked into unassuming office buildings, staffed by doctors who don't ask questions and nurses who know how to scrub gunpowder off a floor.
Rafael is in the back of the lead vehicle with two medics. I’m in the seat right beside him, my hand locked onto his. He’s unconscious now, the blood loss finally claiming the last of his consciousness. Every time the SUV hits a bump, a low groan escapes him, and I flinch like the pain is mine.
Don't die. You beautiful, arrogant idiot. Don't you dare leave me with this guilt. Don't you dare make me the reason you stop breathing.
"Pulse is thready," one of the medicks mutters, his hands busy with a pressure bandage. "He’s lost too much."
"How much longer?" I demand, my heart hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs.
"Two minutes, Mrs. Caruso."
I look down at our joined hands. My skin is stained a deep, drying crimson. It’s under my fingernails, crusted on my palms. I think about the basement—the way I judged him for the blood on his hands. Now, his blood is on mine, and it feels like the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.
We skid to a halt in a basement garage. The doors fly open, and the stretcher is whisked away before I can even draw a full breath.
"Wait!" I shout, stumbling out of the car.
I chase them through a set of double doors, my heels clicking frantically on the linoleum. We hit a set of swinging doors marked SURGERY, and a nurse with a face like granite steps into my path.
"You can't go any further, ma'am."
"That's my husband," I snap, trying to shoulder past her. "I need to be in there. He needs to know I'm there."
"He's going into surgery, Mrs. Caruso," the nurse says, her voice firm but not unkind. "The best thing you can do for him right now is sit down and let the doctors work. You’re covered in road grit and blood. You’re a transition risk."
"I don't care about—"
"Gia."
I spin around. Matteo and Enzo are walking down the corridor, their faces grim. Matteo looks like he hasn't slept in three days, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened. Enzo is staring at my dress, his jaw tight.
"She’s right," Matteo says, reaching me. He puts a steadying hand on my shoulder. "You can't go in there. They have to move the lead. They have to stop the internal bleed."
"He saved me, Matteo," I whisper, the bravado finally crumbling. I look down at my hands, my vision blurring. "I saw it. He looked in the direction the shots came from and... he just threw himself over me. He didn't even think about it."
Matteo’s expression softens, a look of profound, weary understanding crossing his face. "I know. We saw the footage from the yard. He didn't even hesitate. That’s Rafael. He protects what’s his."
Am I his? Is that what this is? A man guarding a piece of property, or something else? Something I’m too terrified to name?
"Why?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Why would he do this for someone he doesn’t even care about?”
Enzo snorts, a dark, humorless sound. "A man doesn't take a bullet for a political alliance, Gia."
I collapse into one of the stiff, plastic chairs in the waiting room. My legs feel like they’re made of water. Matteo sits beside me, while Enzo paces the length of the hall, his phone glued to his ear as he coordinates the hunt for the O’Rourkes.
"You should go wash up," Matteo suggests. "There’s a private lounge through those doors. Showers, clean clothes."
"No."
"Gia—"
"I’m not moving," I say, my voice hardening. I look at the red light above the surgery doors. "I am staying right here until that light goes out. I’m not leaving him alone in there."
Matteo studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Stubborn. Rafael always said you were a pain in the ass."
"It’s one of my best qualities," I mutter, leaning my head back against the cold wall.
The hours crawl by in a haze of fluorescent lights and the distant, clinical hum of machinery.
Night turns into the grey, sickly light of early morning.
Matteo falls asleep in his chair, his head lolling to the side, his snores a low, steady rhythm.
Enzo is gone, likely making sure the O'Rourkes regret ever picking up a rifle.
I stay awake. I count the tiles on the floor.
I trace the patterns of the blood on my dress until it turns into a map of my own failures.
The red light finally flickers and dies.
I’m on my feet before the door even finishes opening. A doctor in green scrubs walks out, his mask hanging around his neck. He looks exhausted, his eyes bloodshot.
"Is he...?" The word catches in my throat.
"He’s stable, Mrs. Caruso," the doctor says, and the relief that hits me is so violent I actually stagger. Matteo is awake now, standing behind me. "The bullet fractured the scapula and nicked a minor artery. We’ve removed the fragments and repaired the vessel. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the recovery will be unpleasant, but he’s a strong man.
We're moving him to the recovery suite now. "
"Can I see him?"
"He’s still under heavy sedation. He won't be awake for hours."
"I don't care," I say, already moving past him. "I just need to be there."
The recovery room is silent, save for the rhythmic, reassuring beep of the heart monitor.
Rafael looks different in the hospital bed. It’s the contrast of the white sheets against his tanned skin, the various tubes snaking into his arms making him look... human. Vulnerable. It’s a side of him he’d hate for anyone to see—the Butcher with his guard down.
His shoulder is heavily bandaged, a thick white pad held in place by surgical tape. His face is still pale, the exhaustion of the trauma etched into the lines around his eyes.
I pull a chair up to the side of the bed. I don't sit on it. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my legs tucked under me, careful not to jostle the tubes. I reach out and find his hand. It’s warm. It’s solid. It’s the only thing in the world that feels real right now.
"You idiot," I whisper, my thumb tracing the scars on his knuckles. "You weren't supposed to be a hero. You were supposed to be the man who doesn't care."
He doesn't answer. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each sound is a promise. Each sound is a heartbeat I nearly lost.
"Mrs. Caruso?"
I look up. A young nurse is standing in the doorway, holding a tray with a glass of water and some crackers. "The doctor said you haven't eaten. And there’s a cot in the corner if you’d like to lie down."
"I'm fine, thank you. I just want to stay here."
"You've been awake for hours," the nurse says gently. "He’s stable. He’s not going anywhere. You should get some sleep."
"I’m staying," I say, my voice leaving no room for argument. "He shouldn't wake up alone."
The nurse lingers for a second, looking at the way I’m clutching his hand, then she sets the tray down and slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
Matteo and Dante stop by an hour later. They stand at the foot of the bed, looking at their friend with a mixture of worry and respect.
"He's going to be a nightmare to deal with once he's awake," Dante whispers, a small, tired smirk on his face. "He hates being handled."
"Then we’ll just have to be bigger nightmares," I say, not looking away from Rafael’s face.
"You're going to do a good job of that, Gia," Matteo says, squeezing my shoulder before they leave.
The room settles back into its quiet, sterile peace.
I lean forward, resting my forehead against the side of the bed, my eyes fixed on the man who saved my life.
I think about the silver wolf charm. I think about Salvatore’s threat.
Every moment I spend holding this hand is a betrayal of the mission, but every moment I spend holding it feels like the only thing that's ever made sense.
What am I going to do?
My eyes start to feel heavy. The adrenaline is finally, mercifully, gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that I can't fight anymore.
I shift closer, my cheek resting on the mattress right next to his hand.
I don't let go. I thread my fingers through his tighter, my grip firm even as my consciousness begins to slip.