Alex had already left in the early hours of the morning, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips before slipping out of our bed. He told me only that he had business to attend to and would try to make it back home by nightfall. He didn't elaborate, so I didn't press. That was the unspoken rhythm of our marriage. Some doors simply remained closed, even between us.
He had left Sergio behind.
So when I finally stepped out of bedroom, dressed for the office, heels sharp against the marble floor, Sergio was already there, phone pressed to his ear. The moment he saw me, something in his expression tightened. He ended the call and faced me fully.
"Sandro's awake," he said.
The words struck like a jolt of electricity.
"And?" I asked, just because he didn't seem like he was moving.
"And you're not permitted to visit him without your husband present."
My brows drew together slowly. The audacity of it almost amused me.
"I don't give a shit," I replied coolly, already moving toward the elevator.
He stepped in front of me, broad and immovable.
"Boss's orders, I'm afraid."
I tilted my head slightly, studying him. "You're afraid," I corrected smoothly. "I'm not. So move."
For a moment, neither of us budged.
Then I took another step forward anyway.
Sergio's jaw tightened. Mine did too.
We just stood there, in the quiet of the penthouse hallway, the air thick with unspoken threats. He wasn't just a guard. He was loyal. To Alex. To the rules.
"You think boss didn't give me to authority to carry you back into that bedroom and lock you there?" he asked quietly.
"You wouldn't dare," I replied just as softly. "Because if you dare lay a hand on me against my will, it wouldn't be your boss you're afraid of."
I held his gaze deliberately.
Something flickered in his eyes then. Not fear. Recognition.
"Look, I'll be fine," I continued, voice steadier now. "I'll even tell him that you've put up a good fight. But I'm going because Sandro's loyal. And if there's even a fraction of loyalty left in you toward this family, then you know I need to see him, especially after his sacrifice."
He hesitated.
That was all I needed.
"I'm not asking you to disobey him," I added. Stand outside the room. Call him him if you must. But you will not stop me."
Silence stretched between us.
Then slowly, Sergio stepped aside.
"I'm coming with you," he said flatly.
"Good," I answered, brushing past him. "I'd expect nothing less."
By the time we arrived in the hospital, my pulse had evened out. The hospital still reeked of antiseptic and old grief, familiar. The building loomed sterile and white against the grey morning sky, too clean for the kind of sins that had passed through its halls.
Sergio stayed half a step behind me as we walked through the hallway leading to his room, led by one of the nurses from the counter. People glanced at us as we passed. Security glanced twice. But I didn't care.
Power had a way of announcing itself without needing to speak.
Two of Alex's guards stood outside his private room. I knew this because they didn't look familiar. And frankly, they didn't even look remotely Italian.
Nonetheless, they straightened the moment they saw me.
"He's stable," the nurse said quietly. "Weak. But conscious."
I didn't answer.
"I'll leave you to it," she said, before awkwardly walking away.
My hand hovered over the handle for only a second before I pushed the door open.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Machines hummed softly beside the bed. The sound reminding me of the ones my grandfather had, hooked up to keep him alive back in Italy.
And there he was.
Sandro.
Paler than I remembered. Thinner. Tubes running into his arms. But his eyes, they were open. And those lips, parted as they shifted toward me slowly.
"Boss," he croaked, the word tearing out of him before it dissolved into a fit of coughing.
I was at his side before he could reach for anything himself. I poured water from the glass pitcher on his bedside table, steady despite the tremor humming beneath my skin, handing it to him.
He stared at it for a second, confusion clouding his fever-dulled eyes. Then he took it carefully, fingers brushing mine, and muttered, "Grazie."
He drank greedily, draining half the glass in a few rough gulps.
So they hadn't told him.
If they had, there would've been more tension. Suspicion. Sandro was many things, but he was never careless with his reactions. In the short time he had served as my guard, he had always been composed. Calculating and controlled.
Right now, he just looked tired.
"How are you feeling?" I asked quietly, stepping back to give him space as he cradled the glass in both hands.
"Better," he rasped. Then, more clearly, in Italian, "And thank you. For everything you've done." His gaze lifted to mine, heavy with something that looked almost like resignation. "But you didn't have to do this. You could have let me die."
The words lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
I had thought he was dead. And I hadn't been the one who pulled him back.
"Don't thank me," I said, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "If you're going to thank anyone, thank my husband."
His brow furrowed faintly.
"He's the one who made sure you were saved."
"Dario?" he asked, confusion deepening. "Isn't he dead?"
"No," I said evenly. "Not Dario."
I held his gaze, watching the moment before impact.
"Alex," I clarified. "Alexandre Barinov."
Silence fell between us.
And then I watched the color drain from his face in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss.
"No wonder the guards were speaking Russian," he murmured, more to himself than to me.
I drew in a slow breath, steadying myself. This was the moment. There was no soft way to do this.
"Sandro."
He looked up at me.
Shock was there. Confusion. And beneath it, something sharper. Betrayal.
"I'm giving you something no one in the history of this Famiglia has ever given," I said evenly. "I'm giving you a choice."
His fingers tightened slightly around the glass, but he didn't interrupt.
"You've always been loyal," I continued. "You protected me without hesitation. You never questioned orders. You never overstepped. That kind of loyalty is rare."
I let the silence stretch just enough to make the next words land heavier.
"Arturo knows about my betrayal. Everyone does. And it doesn't matter." My voice didn't waver. "New York is under my control now."
That truth settled between us like a loaded weapon.
"I'm offering you a position at my side," I said. "Consigliere. You'll advise me. You'll help me rebuild what's fractured once I take what's mine. You'll shape what this city becomes."
His jaw flexed.
"And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.
"Then I'll understand," I replied. "You'll walk away. No punishment. No retaliation. You'll leave this hospital, and you'll be free to choose your loyalty."
That was the part no one would believe.
I hadn't told him anything operational. No names. No routes. No leverage points. If he chose to run back to Arturo, he would carry pride and rumor, nothing more.
For the first time in generations, someone in this war was being offered autonomy.
I held his gaze steadily.
"I won't beg," I said. "And I won't threaten you, I'd understand if you refuse. But I need men beside me who choose to stand there."
The machines hummed softly in the background.
"Well, Sandro?"