Chapter 27 - Van
Dante's voice cuts through smoke and gunfire. "Target secured. Get him out. Now."
But it's the second voice that makes me question if I'm real or floating.
"I'm here, Van. I've got you."
Carmela. Not just sending a rescue team. Leading it.
Strong hands lift me. The world tilts. Smoke burns my throat. My wrists throb where rope cut deep. Everything smells wrong—antiseptic and gunpowder and something metallic that might be my own blood.
Through the haze, fragments surface. Someone actually came. This isn't another hallucination where I imagine rescue that never arrives.
But her scent cuts through everything else. Citrus. Real.
I should be the one rescuing her. Three years of managing PTSD, of being the protector. This reversal sits wrong in my chest alongside the bruised ribs. But underneath the discomfort, something else slowly dawns—someone loved me enough to come.
Through the smoke, movement in the doorway. Carmela stops. She turns with deliberate precision toward the corner.
Lucia.
I try to warn her but my throat won't work. The drugs make everything feel underwater.
"You touched what's mine."
Carmela's voice drops to something I don't recognize. The warmth drains from her face, replaced by something that makes my blood chill despite the fever.
Lucia tries to speak. Nothing comes out.
Carmela doesn't run. She walks. Measured. Deliberate. A flash of metal—where did she get that knife?
"Three days." Closer now. The blade catches emergency lighting. "You had him for three days."
My vision doubles, triples. The knife finds its home between Lucia's ribs. Once. Twice. I lose count or maybe I can't count anymore. Red spreads across Lucia's white shirt.
Lucia crumples. Carmela stands over her, patient, waiting.
Then she turns back to me and the ice melts. She crosses to me in three strides, her bloodied hands infinitely gentle as they frame my face.
"No one touches you. Ever again."
The room spins. I want to tell her she's magnificent. Terrifying. Perfect. But the drugs pull me under before I can form the words.
The antiseptic burns my nostrils as they load me into the medical transport. Through the morphine haze, I realize she's here, in the vehicle. Her small hands check my pulse with desperate efficiency. Not frantic—controlled. Professional.
"I can feel a pulse, but it's weak," she reports to someone over comms. "How long until we get there?"
The authority in her tone makes even the hardened medical team move faster. This isn't a worried girlfriend. This is someone expecting immediate compliance.
My sunshine princess didn't just send help. She became a general.
The private Rosetti medical facility is a world away from the nightmare I've just escaped. Clean white walls, equipment humming, and a medical team that jumps to attention the moment Carmela walks through the door.
"I'm in charge here," she tells the lead physician. "You follow my orders regarding his care."
I try to sit up, fighting through the lingering effects of whatever they used to keep me compliant. My hands won't stop shaking. I know the treatment protocols—know what IVs I need, what medications—but the knowledge keeps slipping away like water through fingers.
The rope burns around my wrists throb as I move. Not phantom pain this time. Real.
She stays while they hook me up to various drips—rehydration, no doubt—and over several hours, the fog starts to lift.
"I need to go home." The words scrape my throat.
The medical team protests. Standard procedure, forty-eight hour monitoring, potential complications. But Carmela holds up one hand, and they fall silent.
"Get us a car. Now."
My brain clears enough to take in the scene. Carmela wears clothes thrown on in a hurry—long skirt instead of her usual sundresses, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that speaks of sleepless nights. Her green eyes are red-rimmed but fierce. This isn't the woman who left for New York days ago.
"You mobilized armies for a broken soldier." Each word fights past my raw throat. "That's not smart tactical thinking, sunshine."
Her smile turns sharp, dangerous. "Good thing I'm not just thinking with my head anymore."
"I don't deserve this."
"That's not your choice anymore." She takes my battered hand in both of hers. Her grip anchors me. "You're mine, Van. Mine to protect, mine to keep safe, mine to love whether you think you deserve it or not."
The possessiveness in her voice cuts through everything. Calm. Absolute. This isn't the woman who needed protection. This is someone who commands dangerous men with casual authority.
I close my eyes. Let it happen. Let myself be claimed by someone who'll raise armies rather than lose me.
"Take me home then."
She helps me from the bed with gentle hands, supporting my weight as my legs shake. I lean into her, accepting what I never could before—help, support, love without conditions.
The simple act of walking feels monumental. Each step requires conscious effort, muscles remembering how to work together. But Carmela stays beside me, steady and sure. She opens doors, checks my balance, offers her shoulder when I stumble. No pity in it. Just partnership.
And with every step by her side, I feel stronger.