Page 516 of Rosetti Family New York
"We bring him home," I say.
"The teams will handle extraction," Dom starts, slipping back into protective mode. "You'll coordinate from here, safe in the—"
"No." The word comes out firm but not harsh. "I'm going. He needs to see my face when we get him out."
All five brothers start talking at once, their protests overlapping into noise, but I hold up my hand again.
"He's going to be broken." My voice wavers slightly—the first real crack in my control. "Maybe barely conscious. The first thing he needs to see is that I came for him. That I didn't just send people—I came myself."
"Carmela, that's not safe," Rafe argues.
"Then make it safe." I head for the door, knowing they'll follow because that's what family does. "Jet's ready in thirty minutes. Anyone not ready stays behind."
The sound of chairs scraping and weapons being checked tells me everything. I pause at the door, looking back at the war room where I've just claimed my place.
Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to run back to being protected and safe and naive. But the biggest part—the part that loves a broken soldier who trusts me with his demons—knows exactly what needs to happen.
We're bringing my man home.
27 - Van
Dante's voice cuts through smoke and gunfire. "Target secured. Get him out. Now."
But it's the second voice that makes me question if I'm real or floating.
"I'm here, Van. I've got you."
Carmela. Not just sending a rescue team. Leading it.
Strong hands lift me. The world tilts. Smoke burns my throat. My wrists throb where rope cut deep. Everything smells wrong—antiseptic and gunpowder and something metallic that might be my own blood.
Through the haze, fragments surface. Someone actually came. This isn't another hallucination where I imagine rescue that never arrives.
But her scent cuts through everything else. Citrus. Real.
I should be the one rescuing her. Three years of managing PTSD, of being the protector. This reversal sits wrong in my chest alongside the bruised ribs. But underneath the discomfort, something else slowly dawns—someone loved me enough to come.
Through the smoke, movement in the doorway. Carmela stops. She turns with deliberate precision toward the corner.
Lucia.
I try to warn her but my throat won't work. The drugs make everything feel underwater.
"You touched what's mine."
Carmela's voice drops to something I don't recognize. The warmth drains from her face, replaced by something that makes my blood chill despite the fever.
Lucia tries to speak. Nothing comes out.
Carmela doesn't run. She walks. Measured. Deliberate. A flash of metal—where did she get that knife?
"Three days." Closer now. The blade catches emergency lighting. "You had him for three days."
My vision doubles, triples. The knife finds its home between Lucia's ribs. Once. Twice. I lose count or maybe I can't count anymore. Red spreads across Lucia's white shirt.
Lucia crumples. Carmela stands over her, patient, waiting.
Then she turns back to me and the ice melts. She crosses to me in three strides, her bloodied hands infinitely gentle as they frame my face.
