The world was a blur of pain and dim light. My consciousness felt like a fraying thread, and I held onto it with everything I had. The burning pain in my side was my anchor, the one sensation that felt real. Everything else was a distant, muffled noise—shouted orders, boots crunching on glass, the cold concrete floor seeping into my bones.
But there was another feeling. A warmth. A steady heat flowed into my arm, pushing back the cold. I turned my head, a monumental effort, and my blurred vision focused on the source.
Dante.
He lay beside me on the filthy ground, a clear tube connecting his arm to mine. His face, usually calm and controlled, showed raw, unmasked fear. In the dim light, I saw terror in his eyes. His jaw was clenched, his breathing uneven, not from physical strain but from a deep, soul-numbing fear that mirrored my own. Our blood, the rarest on earth, was mingling. His life was flowing into mine.
"Don't you dare leave me, Isabella," he rasped, his voice breaking in a way I had never heard before. His free hand grasped mine, his grip tight as if he could physically keep my spirit in my body. "The debt is not paid. Not yet. Do you hear me?"
He wasn't talking about the blood. I knew it. In that moment, suspended between life and death, I realized that the debt he owed me was much greater than a simple transfusion. It was a debt for bringing this darkness upon me, for pulling me into his storm.
Vaguely, I felt myself being lifted. The arms that held me weren't those of a medic; they were his. He refused to let go, carrying me out of the warehouse while his team moved around us with silent, deadly efficiency. The cold night air hit my face, a shocking contrast to the fire in my side. I was bundled into the back of the SUV, my head resting in his lap, the transfusion line still connecting us.
Aria was already inside; her face was pale and streaked with tears. She looked from me to her brother, her gaze lingering on the tube connecting us. She was seeing it too. The undeniable, terrifying truth of what was happening between us.
"Faster, Leo," Dante snapped at the driver, his voice vibrating through me. "Every red light you run is a second she doesn't have."
The journey was a blur of speed and sirens that only I seemed to hear. All I could focus on was the steady beat of Dante's heart against my ear and the warmth of his blood chasing the shadows from my veins.
We didn't go to a hospital. The SUV drove into a private, underground entrance beneath the Moretti Tower; the doors sealed behind us with a heavy thud. We were back in the fortress. A team of doctors in clean scrubs was waiting, a gurney ready.
The moment they tried to take me from him, Dante growled like an animal. "I'm not leaving her."
"Sir, we need to get her into the O.R.," a calm, gray-haired doctor insisted. "Your blood has stabilized her, but we need to remove the bullet and repair the damage. You've given enough. Let us handle it."
Relinquishing control was visibly painful for him. With one last, desperate squeeze of my hand, he allowed them to transfer me to the gurney. They rushed me through double doors, and the last thing I saw before darkness took me was Dante standing there, stripped of his tactical gear, looking utterly lost.
For what felt like an eternity, Dante stood frozen, staring at the closed operating room doors. His hands were covered in my blood. He could still feel the phantom warmth of me in his arms, the terrifying fragility of my life resting in his hands. He had faced down assassins, cartels, and corporate raiders without flinching. But the thought of losing me had broken him.
"Dante."
Aria's small hand on his arm startled him. He looked down at his sister, her eyes red but clear, her expression filled with sorrow.
"It's not your fault," she whispered.
A harsh laugh escaped his lips. "Isn't it? I brought her here. I put her in the cage. I painted the target on her back. Valerius only took her because she was with me." The guilt felt like poison, burning through his veins.
"He took her because you care about her," Aria corrected softly, her insight hitting him like a physical blow. "He saw it. I see it. The only person who doesn't seem to see it is you."
He had no answer. He had lived his life building walls, burying emotions so deep he thought they were dead. But Isabella Rossi, with her defiant spirit and stubborn refusal to bend to his will, had destroyed every one of his defenses.
The surgeon emerged two hours later, pulling off his mask. Dante was on him in an instant, his hands forming fists.
"She's stable," the doctor said, holding up a calming hand. "The bullet passed clean through, missing vital organs. It was the blood loss that nearly killed her. Your transfusion… there's no doubt, Mr. Moretti. You saved her life. Again."
The relief that washed over Dante was overwhelming, leaving him weak. The debt was paid. They were even. A life for a life. So why did he feel more bound to her than ever before?
"I want to see her," he demanded.
"She's in recovery. She'll be unconscious for several hours."
"I don't care."
He pushed past the doctor and entered the private recovery room. It was sterile and white; the only sound was the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Isabella lay in the bed, looking small and fragile, an IV in her arm replacing our previous bond. Her face was pale, her vibrant blue eyes hidden, but she was breathing. She was alive.
He pulled a chair to her bedside, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor. He reached out, his hand hesitating before gently taking hers. It was warm. Alive.
The mask of the CEO, the ruthless lord, the avenging son, finally crumbled. All that remained was a man, terrified and raw, watching over the woman who had somehow become the fragile center of his universe. He sat there in the quiet hum of the machines, holding her hand, and for the first time in nineteen years, Dante Moretti began to pray.