Adriana's POV
My fingers found the trigger.
The gun was cold. The knife was colder. Alessio stood there, hands raised, chest bleeding heavily through the black fabric, offering me two distinct ways to completely destroy him.
"Choose, principessa."
The Moretti men waited. Four of them. Their leader stood in front, smiling like he already owned me. "Tick-tock, De Luca. Your wife is shy."
I wasn't shy. I was terrified. But terror looks a lot like rage when you're holding a loaded weapon.
I lifted the gun.
Alessio didn't move. Didn't blink. He just watched me like he'd watch me change—as if he were memorizing my face in case this was the absolute last time.
"You told me not to point it at you," I said. My voice didn't shake. Good.
"Changed my mind." His mouth twitched. Not a smile; a dare. "Prove to them you are mine, wife. Shoot."
The safety was off. I'd flicked it without even thinking. My thumb knew what my brain didn't. He had taught me that, without ever actually teaching me.
"Last chance," the Moretti leader warned. "Give us the girl, De Luca. Or we—"
I shot him.
The sound cracked the dark alley wide open. His smug smile vanished along with the top half of his head. He dropped instantly. The other three men froze for half a heartbeat.
That fraction of a second was all Alessio needed.
He moved like death itself. One step, two, and his gun was up. He fired three times in rapid succession. Three more bodies hit the concrete.
Silence fell again, except for the violent ringing in my ears and Alessio's ragged breathing. It was significantly worse than before.
I was still holding my gun up, pointing blindly at the empty air where a man had been standing just seconds ago. My hands didn't shake, but my entire body vibrated with adrenaline.
Alessio crossed over to me. He didn't look at the corpses. He looked at me—at my face, at my mouth, and then down at the gun. He took the knife from my other hand with a slow, careful movement, treating me like I was the one bleeding out.
Then he used it. Not on me, but on himself.
He sliced his own palm open, fast and clean. Dark blood welled up instantly under the dim warehouse light. He closed his fist around the blade, letting the blood drip onto the cold concrete between us.
"Moretti's law," he said, his voice completely wrecked. "You want her marked? She's marked."
He stepped directly into my space, too close. His bloodied hand came up, and he dragged his thumb roughly across my bottom lip—the exact same place he'd left his blood before. Claiming me twice. Branding me in front of the dead.
"Mine," he said. Not to them. To me. Or maybe to God. "Law or no law. Bullet or no bullet. Mine."
I couldn't breathe. The gun fell from my hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud. I didn't care.
"You're insane," I whispered.
"I'm dying," he corrected. He swayed just once, then locked his knees tight. "There's a difference."
He turned away from me and walked toward the bodies. Crouching by the leader, he patted him down with his good hand, pulling out a phone, a second gun, and a set of car keys.
He tossed the keys to me. I caught them, not even knowing I could until they landed in my palm.
"Drive," he ordered. He was already walking back toward our vehicle, leaving the Moretti SUV and four fresh corpses behind like literal trash. "You're driving now."
"I don't—"
"You do." He pulled open the passenger door and fell into the seat. Not sat—fell. His head tipped back heavily against the headrest, his eyes closing instantly. "Hospital. Now. Before I pass out and you have to dig the bullets out all by yourself again."
Panic hit me, cold and sharp. "You said you didn't want a hospital! You said—"
"I said a lot of things." His eyes cracked open, black, empty, and fixed entirely on me. "Shoot me, I said. You didn't. That means you chose. You chose to keep me. So keep me alive, principessa."
I ran around the car and scrambled into the driver's seat. The keys shook violently in my hand before I finally managed to jam them into the ignition. The engine turned over with a roar. I didn't look at him. I couldn't. If I did, I'd see how gray his skin had turned and how much blood was soaking into the leather seat.
I peeled out of the alley, tearing back toward the city—back toward light, people, and hospitals that would inevitably ask questions I couldn't possibly answer.
"You killed a man," he noted after a long while. His voice was quiet, not accusing, just stating a plain fact.
"So did you." My hands were locked onto the steering wheel at a strict ten-and-two position, just like my driving instructor had taught me. As if any part of this night was normal. "Four."
"Five, counting the stairs," he laughed, but it quickly turned into a wet, painful cough. "You're at one."
"Don't talk."
"Make me."
I slammed the brakes at a red light, turning on him fiercely. "You want to die? Is that it? That's what a smart man does, right?"
"You're not smart."
"No." He smiled, showing bloody teeth. A real smile this time. "I'm yours. You break it, you bought it, remember?"
The light turned green. I drove.
Ten minutes later, the hospital came into view. White, clean, and the absolute polar opposite of us.
"Pull around back," he muttered. "ER entrance. Don't park. Leave the car running."
"Alessio—"
"Do it."
I complied, skidding to a halt right under the emergency overhang with the engine still running. The automatic doors slid open, and several nurses looked up at the sound of the tires.
He reached for his door handle, but missed. His coordination was completely gone.
I threw myself out of the car, ran around to the passenger side, and hauled his door open. He was much heavier than he looked—pure dead weight. But not dead. Not yet.
"Help!" I screamed, not caring who heard me. "He's been shot! Three times!"
Orderlies immediately rushed out with a gurney, transferring him onto it. He didn't fight them; he didn't have the strength left to try. But as they began to wheel him away, he caught my wrist, his grip still feeling like absolute iron.
"Tell them I'm John Smith," he rasped out. "No ID. No cops. Cash only."
"What?"
"Tell them." His dark eyes bored into mine with terrifying intensity. "Or they call the police. And the Morettis find us. And you die."
The orderlies kept pushing the gurney, physically tearing him away from me.
"Alessio!" I ran after them. "Wait!"
He managed to lift his head off the gurney one last time, looking back at me—at my mouth, at his dried blood still staining my skin.
"Wipe it off now, principessa," he said, his voice fading. "Before they ask who bit you."
"Alessio!" I ran after them. "Wait!"
He lifted his head off the gurney one last time. He looked back at me—at my mouth, at his blood still smeared on it.
"Wipe it off now, principessa," he said, his voice fading. "Or they will know what you are."
The ER doors swallowed him.
I stood there in the exhaust fumes and harsh fluorescent light, wearing clothes he had bought me, with his blood on my mouth, his gun on the floor of his car, and his knife heavy in my pocket.
I didn't wipe it off.
The cop behind me spoke, his voice breaking the silence. "Ma'am? We need to ask you some questions."