Chapter 25
ROSALINA
I wake to the sound of my own screaming.
The dream dissolves but the terror remains—Patrick's face, Dolan's blood, Erin's voice calling for me while I stand frozen, unable to move, unable to save her. My hands clutch at sheets that are soaked with sweat, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs I think it might crack them.
"Breathe, Bella."
Gabriel's voice. Steady and calm and real. His hand settles on my shoulder, grounding me to reality, pulling me back from the nightmare.
I suck in a breath that feels like broken glass, then another, forcing oxygen into lungs that forgot how to work. The room comes into focus slowly—my doorless bedroom, the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand, Gabriel sitting on the edge of my bed with concern etched into every line of his face.
"What—" My voice comes out raw, wrecked. "What time is it?"
"Almost three in the morning." He hands me a glass of water that was sitting on the nightstand, and I drink it greedily, trying to wash away the taste of terror. "The doctor gave you something to help you sleep. You have been out for about nine hours."
Five hours. Which means Dante and the others have been gone for—
"Where are they?" I demand, pushing myself upright despite the way the room spins. "Where is Dante? And Luca? Did they—"
"Dante is securing Erin at a safehouse," Gabriel says, and the relief that crashes through me is so intense it actually hurts.
"Luca just got home about ten minutes ago. He is debriefing with Callahan, but he’s going to need a minute.
Fucker is covered in guts, and some bruises from throwing some generades to escape. "
"And Patrick?"
Gabriel's expression goes cold. "Being handled."
The words settle over me, and I know what they mean. Patrick Murphy is dying tonight, if he is not dead already. The man who murdered my father and killed Dolan and threatened Erin is being eliminated.
I should feel something about that. Guilt, maybe, or horror at the violence. But all I feel is savage satisfaction and the desperate need to see my sister alive.
"I need to get up," I say, already swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "I need to be there when they arrive. Erin will need—"
The world tilts violently, and Gabriel catches me before I face-plant into the floor.
"Easy," he says, steadying me with hands on my waist. "You are still recovering from earlier. The doctor said the sedative would make you dizzy."
"I don’t care," I snap, but I lean into his support anyway because my legs feel like water. "How long until they get here?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe less. Dante called from the car ten minutes ago. They are all safe."
Twenty minutes. I can stay upright for twenty minutes.
Gabriel helps me down the stairs, one careful step at a time, his arm solid around my waist. My body still feels disconnected and floaty from whatever the doctor gave me, but my mind is crystallizing with each passing second. Erin is alive. Erin is coming home. Erin is—
The front door bursts open.
Dante enters first, and I have never been so grateful to see anyone in my entire life. He is dirty and disheveled, his dark hair falling out of its usual slicked-back style, his shirt torn, but he is whole and breathing and here.
Behind him is Callahan, looking older than I remember, his face lined with grief and exhaustion.
And then—
Erin.
My sister stumbles through the doorway, and the world stops.
She looks like she has been through hell.
Her beautiful red hair is tangled and matted with what might be blood.
Her face is bruised, one eye swollen half-shut, split lip crusted over.
Her clothes—a simple dress she probably wore to Seamus's funeral—are torn and dirty.
But she is alive, her hand protective over the gentle swell of her pregnant belly, and when her eyes find mine across the foyer, she makes a sound that is half-sob, half-scream.
"Rosie."
I am moving before I consciously decide to, my body operating on pure instinct. Gabriel releases me, and I practically throw myself at Erin, catching her in my arms as her knees buckle.
We collapse together onto the marble floor of the foyer, holding each other so tightly I can’t tell where I end and she begins. She is shaking—or maybe I am shaking, or maybe we both are—and the sobs that tear from her throat are the most broken sounds I have ever heard.
"I’m here," I whisper into her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped around her waist, carefully avoiding her pregnant belly. "I’m here, Erin. I’ve got you. You are safe."
"Dolan—" She chokes on his name, her fingers digging into my back hard enough to bruise. "Rosie, Dolan is—he is—"
"I know," I say, and my own voice breaks. "I know, sweetheart. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."
We stay like that for I don’t know how long, two women holding each other on the floor while the men who brought us back together stand guard around us.
Erin cries with the kind of grief that has no bottom, no end, just an endless well of pain that keeps spilling over.
And I hold her through it, my own tears mixing with hers, my heart breaking for the man she loved and lost.
Eventually, her sobs quiet to shuddering breaths. She pulls back just enough to look at me, her blue-green eyes bloodshot and devastated.
"Patrick killed him," she whispers. "Right in front of me. Dolan tried to fight back, tried to get us both out, and Patrick just—" Her face crumples again. "He shot him, Rosie. He shot him and made me watch and I couldn’t —I couldn’t do anything—"
"That is not your fault," I tell her fiercely, cupping her bruised face in my bandaged hands. "None of this is your fault. Patrick is a monster. You are not responsible for what monsters do."
"But the baby—" She presses both hands to her stomach, protective and desperate. "This baby will never know its father. Never hear his laugh or see his smile or feel how much he loved—" She cannot finish the sentence, just dissolves into fresh tears.
I pull her back against me, letting her cry, letting her break, because that is all I can do right now. There are no words that will fix this. No platitudes that will ease her pain. All I can do is hold her and let her know she is not alone.
"The baby will know Dolan," I promise her quietly.
"I will tell your child every story I remember about him.
About how he used to sneak us cigarettes behind the boathouse when we were fourteen.
About how he always made terrible jokes at breakfast just to see you smile.
About how he loved you so much he was willing to risk everything to be with you. "
Erin's breath hitches. "He did love me."
"He absolutely did. Anyone who saw you two together could see it." I press a kiss to her temple. "And he would want you to be safe. To protect yourself and the baby. So that is what we are going to do."
She nods against my shoulder, her tears finally slowing. When she pulls back again, there is something harder in her expression—a kernel of strength fighting its way through the grief.
"Is Patrick dead?" she asks.
I glance up at Dante, who has been standing silently nearby, giving us space but ready to intervene if needed. He meets my eyes and gives a single, definitive nod.
"Luca handled it," Dante says quietly. "Patrick will not hurt anyone ever again."
Something fierce and satisfied flashes across Erin's face. "Good. I hope he suffered."
"He did," Dante confirms, and leaves it at that.
Callahan moves forward, lowering himself carefully to sit on the floor with us—an old man, tired and grieving, but determined to see this through. He looks at Erin with something like wonder and pain mixed together.
"You look so much like your father," he says softly. "Same fierce eyes. Same stubborn chin. Seamus would be so proud of you."
Erin's face crumples again, but she manages to hold it together. "I miss him."
"We all do," Callahan says. "But he left you a legacy, Erin. The Irish organization is yours if you want it. Patrick is gone, and there are still men loyal to Seamus's memory who will follow you. You could rebuild what he built. Make it something he would be proud of."
Erin shakes her head immediately. "I don't want it. I never wanted the mafia life. I just wanted—" Her voice breaks. "I just wanted Dolan and our farm and our chickens and a life that did not involve death and violence."
"That is still possible," Dante says, crouching down to our level.
"Callahan will take over the Irish organization with our backing.
You can have whatever life you want, Erin.
You can disappear to Texas, raise your baby in peace, and let the mafia world forget you exist. That is your choice to make. "
"But the alliance—" Erin starts.
"The alliance is secure," I interrupt, understanding what Dante is offering. "I am your sister. I married Dante. That makes me the connection between the Irish and Italian families. You do not have to sacrifice your happiness for politics anymore."
Erin looks between us, her expression shifting from grief to something like desperate hope. "I could really just... leave? Go back to the farm?"
"You can do whatever you want," Dante confirms. "The only condition is that you let us protect you. Guards watching the property, regular check-ins, emergency protocols in case anyone tries to come after you. But otherwise, you are free."
The word seems to hit Erin like a physical thing. Free. After a lifetime of being the Irish princess, the political pawn, the girl whose value was measured in alliances and agreements—she can finally just be Erin.
"I would visit," I say quickly, because I can’t let her think I am letting her go completely. "Once the baby is born, I could come see you and both babies could be together. And you could come here, whenever you wanted. The door would always be open."