Page 274 of Ricardo

Victoria knocks briefly, then enters my study.

Every man in the room turns toward her.

She does not flinch beneath the attention. Even exhausted, even pale from a night no pregnant woman should have had to endure, she carries herself with grace.

Mario moves toward her. “Victoria.”

“She’s awake,” she says to me.

My body reacts before my mind catches up. I step away from the desk, the argument.

“Is she all right?” I ask.

Victoria’s eyes come to mine.

There is something in them.

Not panic.

Concern, yes. Tenderness, yes. But something else too, something that makes every thought in my head narrow to a point.

“She wants to speak with you,” Victoria says.

Mario studies his wife’s face, and I see the moment he catches whatever I have caught. His jaw shifts. His hand lowers from where it had been resting against the edge of the desk.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

Victoria’s gaze flicks to him briefly, then back to me. “She needs Ricardo.”

That is enough.

I am already moving.

The hallway outside the study is guarded. Two of my people stand near the front entrance, another near the stairwell, and one more at the back corridor leading toward the kitchen and service rooms. My house has never felt less like a home, but right now I am grateful for every weapon inside it.

I take the stairs quickly, then force myself to slow before I reach my bedroom door.

Julia has endured enough startling entries.

I knock once.

“Come in,” she says.

Her voice is soft. Tired. Rough around the edges.

I open the door.

She is standing near the window in the clothes Victoria brought for her, black leggings and a cream sweater that doesn't quite fit her. Her hair is brushed and loose around her face. She looks fragile in the morning light, but there is steel in her even now. I saw it in the hospital. I saw it when she spoke Harrison’s name with Dante’s blood still on her.

I close the door behind me.

For one second, neither of us moves.

Then I cross to her.

My hands settle at her waist, then her arms, then her face.

“Cuore mio,” I say tenderly.