Page 147

I sat on the edge of the bed, a white towel soaked in warm water giving off a faint lemon scent. I bent my head and wiped down Marcelo's right hand, which lay outside the covers—slowly, carefully.

This was a hand that belonged to a mafia boss.

Strong knuckles, broad and hard palm bones, thick gun calluses on the palm and inside of the index finger. Blue veins ran across the back of his hand like gnarled vines. At the base of his ring finger was a deep, faded knife scar from long ago.

The towel brushed his cool fingertips. My heart skipped.

Memory yanked me back without warning to that drizzly morning in Paris years ago.

We'd walked along the cobblestones by the Seine, autumn wind damp and cold. He'd reached out just like this and wrapped my frozen fingers completely in his broad, burning palm. He'd been commanding then, utterly domineering, but when our fingers locked together, he'd shown this clumsy tenderness that could melt you. His thumb had always traced my palm absently, every touch scorching, like he wanted to brand our lines into each other's bones.

Back then I'd naively believed that as long as I held onto this hand, even if the world collapsed, I'd always have shelter.

But then what?

Then came that rainstorm in Hoboken, that damp attic in Venice, four years of endless black nights where I'd bitten down on my screams through contractions and despair... I'd told myself over and over: Ruby, you cut that man and those hands out of your life completely.

So why, even now, holding this cold, lifeless palm, did my chest ache a hundred times worse than when I'd almost miscarried four years ago?

My eyes burned. Vision blurred completely.

I took a deep breath and was about to change the cooling towel when that rough, limp hand trembled—just barely.

My breathing stopped.

Then that callused thumb brushed across my palm, weak but stubborn.

Just like on those Paris streets.

"Ru...by..."

A dry, rasping whisper—nearly crushed by his breath—filtered through the oxygen mask and reached my ears.

I looked up sharply.

On the bed, Marcelo's deep gray-green eyes had opened slightly and were fixed on me.

His cracked, pale lips trembled behind the clear plastic mask. His right hand clenched reflexively, gripping my palm with desperate strength, nearly bruising my knuckles.

"Leon... is he..."

His chest heaved with labored breathing. The thick white bandages wrapped around his abdomen and back instantly seeped pale pink. The heart monitor shrieked, but he seemed oblivious to pain, just locked on my eyes, every difficult breath fighting to confirm I was real.

"And you... did Lorenzo hurt you..."

Every bit of rationality, every ounce of strength, every shred of composure I'd held onto for days—it all shattered the second he rasped out those words.

"He's dead! You put a bullet through his skull! Leon's with Isabella and he's fine! And I'm sitting right here in one piece!"

I shot to my feet, hot tears streaming down, landing on his hand. I was nearly hysterical as I pressed his uninjured shoulder down, voice cracking with sobs and fury.

"You lie down! Marcelo Moretti, you lie the hell down! Three fractured ribs, hemopneumothorax—do you have any idea you were in surgery for two days? If you move one more time and tear those wounds open, I'm taking Leon and buying one-way tickets back to Venice, and you'll never see us again!!"

That did it.

Marcelo froze like someone hit pause. His massive frame went rigid on the bed, tense muscles slowly relaxing. But that rough hand still gripped mine desperately, veins standing out like mountain ridges from the force.

He weakly pulled off the oxygen mask blocking his voice and looked up at my tear-streaked face. The white at his temples caught the morning light, looking desolate. His eyes held an abject humility, lips moving.