POV: Emilia Conti
I didn't take us anywhere familiar.
Hospitals were obvious. Safe houses were compromised. Anywhere tied to Alessio's name would already be lighting up on someone's screen.
So I drove until my hands stopped shaking and my instincts took over.
We cut through streets that hadn't decided whether they were industrial or residential yet—half-lit, underdeveloped, ignored by anyone who didn't need to disappear for a few hours. I parked beneath an overpass where the concrete swallowed sound and shadows layered naturally.
I killed the engine.
Silence rushed in, thick and dangerous.
"Stay with me," I said again, already reaching for him.
"I'm still here," Alessio replied, but his voice was thinner now.
Blood soaked his jacket sleeve and pooled onto the seat. The bullet had torn clean through, but the exit wound was ugly—ragged. He'd lose function if I didn't act fast.
"I need light," I muttered.
