Page 517 of Rosetti Family New York
"No one touches you. Ever again."
The room spins. I want to tell her she's magnificent. Terrifying. Perfect. But the drugs pull me under before I can form the words.
The antiseptic burns my nostrils as they load me into the medical transport. Through the morphine haze, I realize she's here, in the vehicle. Her small hands check my pulse with desperate efficiency. Not frantic—controlled. Professional.
"I can feel a pulse, but it's weak," she reports to someone over comms. "How long until we get there?"
The authority in her tone makes even the hardened medical team move faster. This isn't a worried girlfriend. This is someone expecting immediate compliance.
My sunshine princess didn't just send help. She became a general.
The private Rosetti medical facility is a world away from the nightmare I've just escaped. Clean white walls, equipmenthumming, and a medical team that jumps to attention the moment Carmela walks through the door.
"I'm in charge here," she tells the lead physician. "You follow my orders regarding his care."
I try to sit up, fighting through the lingering effects of whatever they used to keep me compliant. My hands won't stop shaking. I know the treatment protocols—know what IVs I need, what medications—but the knowledge keeps slipping away like water through fingers.
The rope burns around my wrists throb as I move. Not phantom pain this time. Real.
She stays while they hook me up to various drips—rehydration, no doubt—and over several hours, the fog starts to lift.
"I need to go home." The words scrape my throat.
The medical team protests. Standard procedure, forty-eight hour monitoring, potential complications. But Carmela holds up one hand, and they fall silent.
"Get us a car. Now."
My brain clears enough to take in the scene. Carmela wears clothes thrown on in a hurry—long skirt instead of her usual sundresses, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that speaks of sleepless nights. Her green eyes are red-rimmed but fierce. This isn't the woman who left for New York days ago.
"You mobilized armies for a broken soldier." Each word fights past my raw throat. "That's not smart tactical thinking, sunshine."
Her smile turns sharp, dangerous. "Good thing I'm not just thinking with my head anymore."
"I don't deserve this."
"That's not your choice anymore." She takes my battered hand in both of hers. Her grip anchors me. "You're mine, Van. Mine to protect, mine to keep safe, mine to love whether you think you deserve it or not."
The possessiveness in her voice cuts through everything. Calm. Absolute. This isn't the woman who needed protection. This is someone who commands dangerous men with casual authority.
I close my eyes. Let it happen. Let myself be claimed by someone who'll raise armies rather than lose me.
"Take me home then."
She helps me from the bed with gentle hands, supporting my weight as my legs shake. I lean into her, accepting what I never could before—help, support, love without conditions.
The simple act of walking feels monumental. Each step requires conscious effort, muscles remembering how to work together. But Carmela stays beside me, steady and sure. She opens doors, checks my balance, offers her shoulder when I stumble. No pity in it. Just partnership.
And with every step by her side, I feel stronger.
28 - Carmela
The elevator doors close behind us as we leave the Rosetti medical facility, Van's arm still heavy around my waist for support. The ride down feels endless, his breathing still labored from three days of torture, but when the car door closes and seals us in leather and privacy, something shifts.
His hands are on me immediately, checking for injuries he knows I don't have while I see every mark they left on him. Three days. Three days of not knowing if I'd ever see those stormy eyes again.
"I'm here," I whisper against his split lip, tasting copper and survival. "I came for you."
His laugh is rough, broken. "You mobilized armies for me."
