The monitor beeps. Slow. But steady.
I reach out. Touch his hand. Cold.
“Don’t.” My voice is a thread. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
The monitor beeps.
I stand there. Holding my brother’s hand. Watching him breathe.
My hand on his is steady. Has always been steady.
But my chest seizes. Tight. Wrong. Like a fist closing around something I didn’t know was still there.
I don’t know the word for it anymore.
25
CASSIA
Lorenzo stands at his brother’s bedside like a man who’s forgotten how to move.
I watch from my chair in the corner. Watch him reach out and take Dante’s hand. Watch his mouth form words too quiet to hear. Watch the weapon become human.
Human. Afraid. Broken open in a way I don’t think he’d ever let anyone see.
Then he straightens. Puts the mask back on. Turns to Giada.
“I’ll be back before dawn. There’s cleanup.”
Giada nods. She doesn’t ask what that means. None of us do.
Lorenzo pauses at the door. Looks at me.
“Stay with him.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s gone before I finish speaking.
I press my palms flat against my thighs. Breathe until my hands stop trembling.
Giada works through the night. Now that she knows what she’s fighting, her movements are different. Purposeful. She adjusts medications, checks readings, makes notes in a chart I can’t read from here.
“Tetrodotoxin,” she says, half to herself. “Blocks sodium channels. Causes paralysis, respiratory failure.” She pauses over a reading. “If we hadn’t known what it was, he’d be dead by morning.”
Giada’s hands pause over Dante’s chest. A shadow flickers across her face. Not exhaustion. Darker. Her eyes go distant.
“Giada?” I push myself out of the chair. Touch her arm. “What is it?”
She shakes her head. Blinks.
“Nothing. I need to cross-reference the compound profile.”
“Against what?”
She doesn’t answer. Just returns to work, her movements sharper than before. More urgent.
I want to push. Want to demand an answer. But Dante’s monitor spikes. His heart rate climbing. Giada moves in a breath, adjusting his IV, watching the numbers until they settle.