Adriana's POV
Click.
The world didn't end.
Moretti's gun jammed.
One second. That was all Alessio needed.
He moved. Not like a dying man, but like a sleeping God suddenly awakened.
He crossed the ten feet of concrete before Moretti could even rack the slide. Alessio's hand closed over Moretti's wrist, applying a brutal pressure. Twisted.
Snap.
Moretti screamed, his weapon clattering loudly against the ground.
I didn't wait. Lunging forward, I grabbed the broken chain still cuffed to my wrist and swung it with everything I had. Metal met temple. Moretti dropped instantly, collapsing as if his sins suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.
Silence. Then, absolute chaos again.
Alessio turned to me, his eyes burning like black fire. His gaze rapidly scanned me—checking my cheek, my lip, my wrist, and the dark blood staining my shirt that didn't belong to me.
"Two," he muttered, his voice sounding like rough gravel. "You're catching up, principessa."
Then, his legs gave out.
I caught him before he hit the ground, our bodies crashing hard against the cold concrete. I pulled his head into my lap, watching his blood seep into my jeans. Again.
"Alessio!" I pressed both hands firmly against his side, but his bandage was already soaked straight through. "You fucking ass—"
"Shh." His trembling finger brushed against my lips. "You did good, principessa. So fucking good."
Around us, his men quickly formed a defensive circle, guns drawn and aimed outward. Protecting their Don. Protecting me.
One of them—the heavily tattooed soldier who had cut Don De Luca Sr. free—knelt beside us. "Car's ready, boss. Hospital?"
"No." Alessio's dark eyes never left mine. "Home. Only home."
They lifted him up. He bit back a ragged scream, refusing to make a sound. He wouldn't show weakness. Not in front of his men. Not in front of me.
I ran alongside the makeshift stretcher they'd crafted from an old door. The Buick was gone, replaced by a sleek, bulletproof black SUV.
Don De Luca Sr. was already inside, his shoulder heavily bandaged. He was unconscious but alive, his chest rising and falling in a steady, shallow rhythm.
We were all alive. For now.
The De Luca Safehouse – 1:48 AM
It was not a mere house. It was a fortress. Steel doors, no windows, and an underground doctor waiting with a cash cart and absolutely no questions.
They laid Alessio out on a metal table in the basement, cutting his shirt away. More blood. There were far more scars on his body than bare skin.
"Out," the doctor ordered me, his tone clipped.
"No." Alessio's hand shot out, wrapping securely around my wrist. Even half-dead, his grip was pure iron. "She stays."
The doctor looked at him, then at me, his eyes lingering on the gun I still gripped tightly in my hand. I hadn't dropped it once.
Finally, the doctor nodded. "Then hold him down."
I did. I climbed right onto the table, straddling his hips. My knees pinned his arms down while I pressed my hands firmly against his shoulders, bringing my face mere inches from his.
"You do this," I told him, my voice shaking with raw emotion, "and I'm never letting you go again. You hear me? Never."
He smiled, his teeth stained with blood. He looked terrifyingly beautiful. "Good. I was getting tired of chasing you."
The needle pierced his skin. No painkillers. He had to stay awake in case they nicked an artery, or in case his heart stopped entirely.
He didn't make a single sound. He just stared up at me as if I were the only thing left in the world. As if I were the sole reason his heart kept beating.
"You should have run," he whispered, his voice fading. "When you had the chance."
"I did," I murmured, leaning down until my forehead rested against his. "Right to you."
His breath hitched. The doctor muttered something technical about a vein, but I didn't hear it. All I could hear was him.
"Principessa," he breathed against my skin. "My principessa."
3:20 AM – The Bedroom
They moved him upstairs after he was stitched up. His room was massive, dominated by a king-sized bed with black sheets. It was the only room in the entire fortress that featured a window, though it was made of thick bulletproof glass looking out into the pitch-black night.
He was sleeping now. A real, drug-induced sleep. Stitched. Alive.
I knew I should have left. I should have showered the grime off and slept. But I didn't.
Instead, I sat in the armchair right beside his bed, still covered in his blood, still tightly clutching his gun.
His father was resting in the adjacent room. Also alive. Also sleeping.
We won. So why did it feel like we had lost something irreplaceable?
The heavy bedroom door creaked open. It wasn't a guard, and it wasn't the doctor.
I expected Alessio's mother, but I'd seen the pictures. She had died six years ago in a car bomb. This wasn't her.
The woman stepping into the room was in her fifties, possessing sharp, cold eyes that mirrored Alessio's exactly. She wore a tailored black dress and held a lowball glass of amber whiskey.
"Maria De Luca," she introduced herself, her tone smooth. "His aunt. You can call me Zia."
I stood up instantly, my instincts taking over as my gun raised to target her.
She didn't even flinch. She simply looked down the barrel of the gun, then met my eyes. "You shot Moretti today."
"Yes."
"You saved my brother." She nodded toward the wall separating us from Don De Luca Sr. "You saved my nephew." She gestured toward the bed.
"I did."
She walked directly up to me, calmly taking the heavy firearm from my hand. Her touch was gentle, treating me like a child as she set the weapon down on the nightstand.
Then, she slapped me.
Hard. An open-palm strike that made my head snap violently to the side.
I tasted copper blood in my mouth. Again.
"That's for making him bleed for you," she said, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "He's been dying since the very day he saw you."
I didn't cover my cheek. I didn't step back. "He's alive because of me."
"Exactly." She smiled then—a sharp, cutting smile that looked exactly like his. "Welcome to the family, principessa."
She turned and left.
I stood frozen in the center of the room. My cheek burned, and my heart raced wildly against my ribs.
"Did she hit you?"
Alessio's voice was a raspy, weak thread. But he was awake.
I turned around, finding his dark eyes wide open, intently watching me.
"Yeah." I reached up, lightly touching my burning cheek. "I think I like her."
He let out a rough laugh that quickly devolved into a harsh cough, bringing a fleck of fresh blood to his lips. "She likes you. Otherwise, she'd have used a knife."
I walked over to him, carefully sitting on the edge of the mattress to avoid jarring his fresh stitches.
He caught my hand, bringing it up to his lips. He gently kissed my knuckles—the ones bruised from swinging the heavy iron chain, the ones that had broken Moretti's face.
"You came for me," he murmured against my skin. "You came for me."
"We are a problem," I whispered back.
"We are a promise."
He pulled me down toward him. It was a slow, hurting movement, yet completely determined.
His mouth found mine. It wasn't bloody this time, and it wasn't desperate. It was slow and deep, as if he suddenly had all the time in the world. It felt like we had already survived hell, so heaven could damn well wait.
His hand slid upward, burying into my hair. His fingers fisted into the strands, tugging my head back until his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of my throat.
"Mine," he growled against my skin. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathed out. "Always."
"And I'm yours." His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, finding my waist. His palm was hot and real against my bare skin. "So don't you ever run from me."
"I won't." I shifted my weight, carefully straddling his hips once again. I was cautious. So incredibly cautious of his wounds. "But you don't get to die, Alessio. Not for me. Not for anyone. You hear me?"
He looked up at me, taking in all of me. Bloody. Broken. But entirely his.
"Then make me live, principessa."
His hands reached up, pulling my shirt over my head.
The very last thing I saw before the bedroom lights went out was his smile. Wolfish. Hungry. Alive.