Marco’s throat bobs. He knows what that means.
“Good.”
He looks at Dante one more time. Then he nods at me. At Giada. And he’s gone. Back to whatever post Lorenzo assigned him.
The hours blur together. Dante’s breaths mark time. Fourteen per minute at midnight. Twelve at 1:00 a.m. Thirteen now. Every number a lifeline. Every number proof that he’s still here.
Giada moves around the bed like a ghost. Checking vitals. Adjusting medications. Making notes. She hasn’t sat down since Romano’s name was spoken. Hasn’t stopped. Hasn’t let herself stop.
Around 3:00 a.m., she grows still. Stares at the monitors. At the numbers I can’t read.
Then she exhales. Long and slow.
And she sits.
Collapses into the chair beside mine, legs folding beneath her like they’ve given out at last. Her hands are shaking. Not a lot. Just enough.
She couldn’t let them shake before. Not while she was working. Not while his life depended on her steadiness.
“He’s stable.” Her voice is hoarse. Scraped thin. “His heart is strong. The toxin is clearing his system.”
I wait.
“He’s going to make it.”
I keep holding his hand.
“Thank you.”
Giada looks at me. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her face is pale. She looks like she’s aged ten years since dinner.
“You gave us Romano.” Quiet but fierce. “You traced everything. Found the connections. Handed us the enemy.” She shakes her head. “You saved him too. Don’t forget that.”
The urge to argue hits me. To say she’s the one who kept him breathing. She’s the one who fought the poison hour after hour while I sat here.
But I don’t. Because maybe we both did.
I squeeze Dante’s hand. Stand on legs that have forgotten how to hold weight.
“I’ll get coffee.”
The compound kitchen is dark and silent. I find the coffee maker by memory. Go through the motions without thinking. Grounds. Water. The hiss and gurgle of brewing. My hands are steadier than I expected.
When I return to the medical wing, Giada hasn’t moved. She’s staring at Dante’s face. At the color returning to his cheeks.
I hand her a cup. Sit beside her.
We don’t speak. Don’t need to. Two women who fought for the same man. Two women who refused to let him go.
The coffee is bitter. Too strong. Neither of us complains.
“You haven’t slept,” Giada says at last.
“Neither have you.”
“I’m used to it. Medical school.” A ghost of a smile. “You’re not.”
“I’ll sleep when he wakes up.”
