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First we buried Mom, then Dad was going to sell me, again. I watched my husband shoot him dead…

And yet, here, in this hospital room with its fluorescent lights and yellow walls, with Domenico’s heartbeat under my hand and his breath against my hair, I am stupidly, irrationally happy to be alive.

I tilt my face up and kiss him. I intend for it to be a peck, but as soon as my mouth finds his, I kiss him with a hunger that surprises us both. His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

I kiss him like I’m trying to crawl inside his skin, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other gripping his jaw, and he lets me. Lets me take whatever I need from his mouth, his breath, the solid warmth of him beneath my hands.

When I finally pull back, gasping, I don’t let go. My forehead rests against his, our breath mingling as I keep my grip on his shirt because the idea of creating even an inch of space between us feels unbearable.

“Thank you,” I whisper. The words are inadequate for what I’m feeling, but they’re all I have. “For finding me. For… everything.”

His thumb brushes my lower lip. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I know. But I’m going to, anyway.”

He almost smiles. The corner of his mouth ticks up, just for a second, before his expression settles back into something quieter.

I take a breath, steeling myself for what I want to say next. “I heard you,” I whisper. “When you told me that you love me. I heard you, Domenico.”

His eyes find mine.

“And I should have said it back then, but I was … I don’t know, scared, or something. And then I felt like I had to wait until after the funeral.”

My hand finds his face, thumb tracing the rough edge of his jaw.

“But there’s no right moment. There’s just now, and I love you, Domenico. I’m in love with you. I have been for a while.”

“Mm, baby.” His hand covers mine, pressing my palm harder against his cheek. “I love you too, Kira.”

I kiss him again, softer this time, and when I pull back, I curl against his chest and let his arm tighten around me. We lie like that for a while, his heartbeat under my ear, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his sternum through his shirt.

The happiness in my chest expands, warm and bright, and for a few minutes, nothing exists except this room and this bed and the weight of his arm across my back.

Then I remember Paolo.

The happiness dims, not gone but banked, like a fire someone’s turned down. I lift my head. “How’s Paolo doing?”

Domenico’s expression changes. There’s a small tightening around the eyes, a slight hardening of his mouth. “He lost a lot of blood.” His voice is even. “The surgery went as well as it could, but his antibody profile is making replacing the blood he lost difficult. They’re running low on compatible units.”

My stomach drops. “Oh, no. What does that mean?”

“It means he might need more blood than they have on hand.” Domenico’s thumb traces a circle on my hip, the gesture at odds with the gravity in his voice.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Do I… should we see if I can donate blood? Or maybe—”

“It’s taken care of, baby,” he assures me.

I furrow my brows, not liking the edge in his tone or the way he suddenly averts his gaze. “What does that even mean?”

“His mom’s almost here. She’s a known compatible donor. She landed twenty minutes ago, and Gio’s bringing her from the airport.”

Wait, I didn’t hear him correctly. Clearly my concussed head is playing tricks on me.

“Say that again,” I whisper, sitting up so I can face him fully. “Who’s coming?”

He swallows thickly. “Paolo’s mom, Shirley, is on her way here now.”

“But I…” How can that be?