Marco's POV
I hadn't left her side, not for a second. The hospital room was dim, quiet, and cold, but I refused to let her wake up to strangers, machines beeped with indifferent rhythm, and her chest rose and fell like a distant wave, slow and precious, the bruises across her face were healing, but I still couldn't look at them for long, her hand was in mine, always.
Some nights I talked to her and told her things I never planned to say out loud, about my mother, about Florence, about the way her laugh made everything quiet in my head, some other nights I just sat there, sketching her face over and over again, terrified I might forget the exact slope of her nose, the angle of her jaw, and the curl of her hair.
The nurse said people in comas can still hear, so I kept talking.
I told her:
"I'm staying. This time, I'm staying."
I meant it.
Until the envelope came.
It was left at the front desk, no name, no return address, just black ink on thick white paper, I opened it in the hospital stairwell with hands I thought had already seen every kind of fear. I was wrong.
"You had your chance. She was warned. Now she's bleeding. Next time, she dies."– I.
There was no signature and it didn't need one, that was Izac, the man who made threats feel like scripture, my breath caught, my fists clenched, at that moment I wanted to scream, to run, to punch a hole through the wall and crawl through it, but none of that would save her.
Not staying. Not wishing. Not even love.
Izac would come again, and the next time, Elina might not wake up.
I thought about what Dante said years ago: "Your blood belongs to this world. You don't get to pretend you're free."
Maybe he was right, maybe the only way out… was back in.
That night, I sat beside Elina one last time.
The world outside the window was quiet; lights blurred in the rain, Somewhere in the distance, bells chimed the hour, she looked peaceful, like always but now the silence between us felt permanent, I leaned in close and whispered, "I would've married you in another life."
I kissed her forehead.
Pressed the letter I'd written into her palm, and then I walked away.
Not because I didn't love her
But because I did.
Two hours later, I stood at the gates of a villa I swore I'd never see again. Dante's guards recognized me immediately, one of them blinked in disbelief. The other said nothing, just opened the door.
My father waited at the end of the hall. He hadn't aged a day.
"Well," he said, with a cold smile, "the prodigal son returns."
I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I want a deal."
And just like that, the fire I ran from became my home.