Too slow. Is it too slow? I don’t know how to read it. I don’t know anything.
I know that twelve hours ago, I woke up in his arms.
Eight hours ago, he brushed flour from my cheek and told me I looked happy.
An hour ago, he raised a glass and saidto family.
Twenty-three minutes ago, his eyes went vacant and he fell.
And now my husband is dying and the man responsible is running and I never said the words that mattered most.
I watch the monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.
The beeps blur with his breathing and my pulse until all three are the same rhythm, the same prayer, the same desperate demand that he stay.
Giada moves around him. Connects another IV. Checks his pupils again.
Please.
Lorenzo doesn’t move from his corner. A statue carved of grief and rage.
The monitor holds steady. Holds.
The doors open. A man with a medical bag, older, urgent.
“Dr.Biagi.” Giada’s voice is clipped. “Samples are being brought. I’ve administered atropine and started supportive care. I need you to identify the compound.”
They talk in words I don’t understand. I’ve stopped listening. All I can hear is the monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Dante’s chest rises. Falls. Rises.
I shut my eyes. Press my hands together until my knuckles ache.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
If I think it hard enough, maybe he’ll hear me. Maybe it will be enough to bring him back.
Maybe.
Please.
24
RENZO
The basement smells like concrete and old blood.
I take the stairs at my own pace. No rush. Romano isn’t going anywhere.
The soldiers found him at the service road. Hiding in the groundskeeper’s shed like a rat. Thirty-two years with this family and that was his exit strategy. A fucking shed.
Two men stand guard at the bottom of the stairs. They step aside when they see me. Smart.
