Page 143 of Ruins
My father.
“How bad?” My voice is even, too controlled.
“He’s alive, but… it’s bad.”
I don’t hesitate.
I grab my coat, whiskey forgotten, problems forgotten—because in this moment, there is only one priority.
Cosa Nostra needs me.
And I need to be clear-headed—now more than ever.
***
My head reels. The doctor’s words echo in my mind, looping endlessly.
Four gunshot wounds.
My father is alive—barely. Hours of surgery, a medically induced coma, and now he’s hanging by a thread. His recovery is a gamble at best, a slow death at worst.
Angelo has locked down the hospital with our best men, stretching our resources thin. Maksim didn’t hesitate to offer reinforcements, even pulling brigadiers from Nevada who will fly in overnight. I called our Capo in Chicago, who is sending soldiers as well. Even Luca was herebeforeme, waiting like the true comrade he is.
All hands on deck for Marcello Amato.
My father ruled with iron and respect, and now the men of Cosa Nostra are rallying to go to war for him.
By the time I make it home, exhaustion weighs heavy in my bones. The living room is dark, the silence pressing in like a vice.
There’s no light under the door to the master bedroom, and for a moment, I let myselfbelieveshe’s asleep.
That I’ll have a night of solitude, that I won’t have to face her.
But then I see it.
A soft glow seeping from beneath the guest room door, shattering the illusion.
I stop in front of it, sighing deeply.
Tonight has been afucking minefield—Romeo in her bedroom, her reckless junk-food joyride, the shadow of Scythe looming like a noose tightening around my neck. I don’t have the strength to deal with any of it. Not now.
I steel myself, prepared to send her to her own room with the last sliver of patience I have left.
But the second I open the door—
She’s on me.
Her arms wrap around my neck, her body colliding into mine, light but insistent.
I barely catch her before I stagger back a step, unprepared for the sheer force of her presence.
She’s so light against me, but shefeelslike everything.
Her face buries into the curve of my neck, breath warm, delicate, soothing—a stark contrast to the war raging in my head.
“I’m so sorry about your father,” she whispers, her voice muffled against my skin.
The words sink in, igniting something deep, something aching in my chest.
