Adriana's POV
I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his. Blood to blood.
Alessio didn't move at first. For a week, he had been a fortress, unyielding. Then his hand came up, fisting tightly in my hair, and he kissed me back. Hard. Possessive. It felt exactly like he was branding me in front of a cop, in front of God, and in front of the very medical machines keeping him alive.
The cop made a small sound—disgust or shock, I didn't care.
Alessio broke the kiss, his breathing ragged and his eyes completely black. "Get out," he told the cop. "My wife and I are busy."
"Sir, I need—"
"Now." Alessio's voice could cut straight through steel, even while he was dying. "Or I call my lawyer. And then I call your captain. And the bench you'll be directing traffic on in Staten Island will be yours until you die."
The cop left, slamming the door behind him.
Alessio dropped his head back against the pillow, looking utterly exhausted. "Lock it."
I did. Then I went right back to his side. My mouth still tasted heavily of him—like copper and war.
"You shouldn't have done that," I said. "Kissing me. You will tear your fresh stitches."
"You shouldn't have kept my blood on your mouth for three hours." His hand found mine again, threading our fingers together securely. "We're even."
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the rhythmic heartbeat of the machines. Beep. Beep. Beep.
"You know my name now," he said after a while. "Alessio Kade De Luca. Use it."
"Alessio." It felt weird rolling off my tongue. Too intimate. Too real. "Your father—"
"Is alive. For now." His jaw locked tight. "The Morettis won't kill him yet. They want me. They want you. He's bait."
"Then we get him."
"We." He smiled, a genuine look with no blood this time—just raw pain. "You said we."
The overhead lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Alessio went completely still, every single muscle in his body locking up. "Get down."
"What?"
"Down. Now."
The heavy wood door kicked inward.
Two men burst into the room. Black masks. Silencers. Not cops.
Alessio moved before I could even manage a scream. He violently ripped the IV line straight out of his arm, grabbed the metal rolling stand, and threw it with everything he had. It struck the first man hard in the chest, sending him crashing down to the tile floor.
The second man raised his gun, aiming it directly at me.
I didn't think. I lunged forward, grabbed the heavy gun from Alessio's bedside table—the one he'd taken off the Moretti man in the alley—and fired.
Once. Twice.
The man dropped.
Silence fell again, except it was significantly louder now, filled with a high-pitched ringing and the sharp stink of gunpowder.
Alessio was staring directly at me, completely ignoring the bodies on the floor. "Two," he noted, his voice sounding quiet and distinctly proud. "You're catching up."
I dropped the weapon. My hands were shaking violently now, though they hadn't before. "They found us."
"They always do." He swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up. He swayed dangerously, but he stayed up. "Hospital's not safe. We leave. Now."
"You can't even walk!"
"Watch me." He took one agonized step. Another. His face turned paper white. "Get my pants. Closet. And the bag. Bottom shelf."
I ran straight to the closet, pulling out a heavy black duffel bag. I unzipped it quickly: cash, passports, more weapons, and a row of burner phones.
He was already pulling his pants over the thin hospital gown. Slow. Painful. But he was doing it.
A loud alarm started screaming down the hallway, the robotic voice repeating: Code Silver. Active shooter.
"Time's up," Alessio grunted. He grabbed the heavy duffel and tossed it to me. Then he took my hand, his grip turning to pure iron again. No weakness remained—just sheer will. "We run."
We ran.
Down the concrete fire stairs, past screaming nurses, and right past a security guard who caught a glimpse of Alessio's face and let us pass without a word. The De Luca name meant something in this city, even when it was actively bleeding.
The car was still parked right out front with the keys left in the ignition. Stupid of me, but incredibly lucky for us.
I jumped into the driver's seat and drove. Alessio rode shotgun, his heavy gun resting in his lap, his head tilted back against the headrest with his eyes closed. But he wasn't asleep. Never asleep.
"Where?" I asked, checking the dashboard. "GPS was dead. Phones off. Where to go?"
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned stark white. The hospital was already a shrinking blur in the rearview mirror. My heart hadn't slowed down since the first gunshot, and it felt like it probably never would again.
"Alessio," I said, my voice shaking. I hated that I let it show. "You are bleeding. Again."
His black shirt was completely soaked through. The surgical stitches had definitely torn open under the strain, and dark blood seeped rapidly through the white gauze, spreading out like spilled wine. He didn't even flinch.
"Good," he rasped out. "Means I'm alive."
"That's not—" I swallowed hard. "That's not how that works."
He laughed. A real, genuine laugh that immediately turned into a wet, painful cough. But his mouth was still curved upward when he looked over at me. "It is for me, principessa. De Lucas don't die in hospital beds. We die in the street, with guns in our hands. Or we do not die at all."
Stop talking like that." The windshield wipers smeared a heavy sheet of rain across the glass. Looking down, I couldn't even tell if it was the rain or the blood staining my own hands. "Where exactly is 'home'? Your penthouse? The warehouse? Because the Morettis know all of those locations."
"Not those homes." He shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he pulled the gun up to check the ammunition clip. Methodical. Even half-dead, Alessio Kade De Luca was a trained soldier first. "Safe house. North. No one knows it. Not my father. Not my men. Not you. Until now."
That statement should have terrified me. Another secret location. Another dark cage. Instead, something warm and dangerous curled inside my chest. Trust. He was trusting me.
"Why?" I whispered, keeping my eyes on the dark road ahead. "Why tell me now?"
His fingers reached across the console and brushed my knee. Just a brief second. A brand. "Because you shot a man for me five minutes ago. Because you said 'we'. Because you tasted my blood and didn't run."
He swallowed hard, his throat moving. "And because if I die tonight, I want you to know exactly where to bury me."
My breath hitched in my throat. "Don't you dare."
"Then don't let me." His eyes burned like black fire in the dim dashboard lights. "Keep driving. Don't stop for red lights. Don't stop for cops. Don't stop unless I say so."
I nodded quickly, not trusting my own voice to speak.
The city blurred past us as sirens wailed somewhere far behind, slowly getting closer. Or maybe that was just the violent ringing remaining in my ears. My hands were perfectly steady now on the wheel. They hadn't been when I picked up the gun, but they were now.
Two men dead. By my own hand. Because of him. For him.
He opened his eyes and looked directly at me. At my mouth. At his blood still dried there. His blood. My blood.