Chapter 142
She should’ve been ash. But she wasn’t.
Rafael had seen plenty of people cling to life out of fear. Lola wasn’t fear. She was defiance in flesh, even unconscious. The faint crease between her brows, the restless twitch of her fingers–she fought even here.
He moved closer, setting a small black phone on the bedside table. A burner. One call, one number. He wasn’t going to keep her caged. Not yet. No–this game needed patience. Curiosity outweighed leverage. He wanted to see what she would do when given the choice.
His gaze drifted over her face, pale against the pillow. A puzzle he couldn’t put down. Enzo’s fiancée, yes. Cinnamon at the Russians‘ club. The tattooist in Los Angeles who’d pricked his skin and made him laugh despite himself. Too many masks, too many lives. And yet the bruised woman in front of him was undeniably real.
He hated not knowing which version was truth. He hated even more how badly he wanted to find out.
Her hand twitched against the sheet. The finger where the ring had been–bare now, bandaged, bruised. He felt the weight of it still in his pocket. Not leverage. Not a trophy. A reminder. A debt.
He leaned in, close enough to catch the slow, steady pull of her breath. Close enough that if she woke, his face would be the first she saw.
“Sleep, volpacchiotta [clever fox],” he murmured, voice pitched low. “When you wake, you’ll show me what you really are.”
He straightened, turned, and walked out, his coat cutting through the sterile light. Behind him, the machines kept time, steady and relentless. Ahead, the city waited–bloody, burning, and about to get worse.
Lola
Consciousness clawed its way back in stages.
First–the sound. Beep. Beep. Beep. Too steady, too clinical. Wrong.
Second–the smell. Sharp antiseptic, bleach heavy enough to burn.
Her eyelids peeled open, fighting light that stabbed into her skull. White ceiling tiles swam above her. A hospital.
Panic jolted through her chest. She tried to move, but agony ripped across her ribs, jagged and merciless. A strangled cry broke free. Her arms flinched up, snagging on tubes and wires tethered to her skin.
No. No no no.
The blast came back in shards–heat, smoke, glass carving air, her ears ringing until there was nothing but white noise. Arms dragging her. A face not Enzo’s. Dark eyes, a mouth cut sharp like it was built for smirking. She remembered rasping words at him. Knew you were trouble.
But it wasn’t Enzo.
Her chest squeezed tight. Where was he? Did he even know?
She turned her head, slow, deliberate. The room was empty. Machines blinked. An IV dripped. On the tray by her bed sat a phone. Small.
11:01 Wed, Oct 8 M
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