Page 65 of Power
He strides forward, scooping me up into his arms without a word. I barely register the movement, barely feel anything except the secure and solid warmth of him beneath me as he carries me away from the wreckage.
From the blood. From my former home. From Enzo.
***
I wake up in my bed back at Dario’s. The sheets are different from the ones I last slept in. They’re clean and soft, but my body aches like I’ve been through hell. My head throbs. My mouth is dry.
And Dario is there.
He’s pacing. Fuming.
The second he sees my eyes open, he stops.
“You,” he says, voice barely calm and rough. “Are out of your goddamn mind.”
I blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
He stalks toward me with hands braced on his hips and breathing sharp and not exactly controlled. “You went to see him. Alone.”
“Yes, well, you were too busy being a crime lord and ignoring my existence to hold my hand.”
His jaw tightens. “You let him drug you.”
“Not on purpose.”
His eyes darken. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”
I push myself up, my arms shaking from the effort. “I don’t need you lecturing me like I’m some helpless idiot.”
“You are a helpless idiot.”
I glare at him. “Oh, please. And what about you? Throwing yourself into a damn death trap? Dario, you walked straight into it like some action hero with a death wish. What if you didn’t survive?”
“But I did,” he says, deadpan.
I throw my hands up. “Oh, well, that makes it fine then! Let’s all just run into traps because Dario Bellini is apparently immortal.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know you care.”
I scoff. “And let’s not forget the part where you turned his body into fish food. You didn’t just kill him—you made sure there was nothing left.”
He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah. Sharks have to eat too. And I’d do it again.”
The room is quiet, but inside me, everything is loud. My pulse, my thoughts, the slow, creeping warmth that spreads through my chest.
I should be horrified. I should be grieving. But I’m not.
I feel... relief.
Not for the way my husband died. Enzo was all I ever knew. And sometimes it takes a cataclysmic force—like Dario Bellini—to shake the foundations of a life built on something hollow.
I watch him. The cut on his cheek. The blood on his hands. The way he looks at me—not like a possession, not like something to be controlled, but like I’m something worth fighting for.
His voice softens. “You should’ve let me handle it, princess.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I just wanted it to be over.”
Dario exhales then sits on the edge of the bed. When he reaches out, I don’t pull away. His fingers brush my wrist, barely there, but enough to make my breath catch.
