He was leaving himself exposed to her.
Dante sat down on the edge of the bed, glancing over his shoulder at her before scrubbing his hands over his face. Nervous.
Her chest ached.
She'd seen them, of course. Nurse Russo saw them every day in the hospital, but he hadn't had a choice then. She'd looked, because she had to, viewing a piece of him without his consent, and she could always tell he felt violated by it. He'd never look her in the eyes when she adjusted wires or listened to his heartbeat, like if he didn't look at her, maybe she wasn't looking at him, either.
"I got stabbed by a pencil when I was thirteen," Gabriella said, sitting up. "I fell asleep doing homework and got woken up by a sharp sting. Pencil was literally sticking out of my thigh. That's how I got this weird gray dot."
She pointed at the small mark on her outer left thigh.
"And I had my appendix removed the summer before I started high school, which is where this came from." She yanked off her dress and tossed it aside, sitting there in only her bra. She sucked in her stomach, trying to get a better view of the two-inch scar on her side. "The whole low-rise jeans and half-shirt combo was hot back then, so everyone saw it. I used to tell people I got stabbed in a fight, because it sounded much cooler than appendicitis, although in hindsight, wow… people actually believed that."
She laughed, chancing a peek at Dante, before continuing.
"Of course, there's also the stretch marks, like on my boobs, courtesy of puberty. I went from nothing to C-cups overnight." She palmed her breasts, catching sight of the small scar between her thumb and pointer finger. "Oh! And this one on my hand—a squirrel bit me. It's kind of a funny story…"
"You don't have to do this," Dante said. "Don't pick yourself apart. That's the last thing I want."
"I'm not picking myself apart," she said. "They're stories. That's what scars are. Some are full of self-depreciating humor. Some are medical dramas. Some are Young Adult novels. And then some… well, some are tragic. Like, Nicholas Sparks meets Shakespeare on the Titanic-level tragic. But something I've come to realize, working where I do, is that having scars means you survived. Scars mean you're alive. Patients come into the hospital all the time with wounds that never get the chance to become scars, and that sucks. The people who do walk away with scars… well, they're the lucky ones."
Dante sat in silence as the room grew darker, the sun disappearing outside. Eventually, he shifted to face her. Gabriella held his gaze before slowly, her eyes drifted down to his chest. Scar tissue covered it in patches, some thicker than others. He'd had multiple extensive surgeries over the years, skin grafts to correct the damage and plastic surgery to hide the evidence, but nothing could erase all signs of his burns.
Reaching over, she ran her fingertips along the rough, rigid skin, not at all surprised when he stared at nothing to avoid seeing her face.
"I love you, Dante."
He looked back at her when she said that. It was the first time she'd said those words to his face, with him awake to hear them. Without responding, he pulled her to him as he climbed into the bed. Gabriella settled into his arms, her hand resting on his bare stomach, stroking the small trail of hair around his belly button. Nuzzling against him, she pressed a kiss to his warm chest.
"I love you, too, Gabriella. More than anything."
Chapter Eighteen
"Dante..."
The room was pitch black, the kind of darkness you could feel, thick enough to overshadow the cloudy haze in the air. It swaddled Dante, infiltrating his lungs when he inhaled, breathing in the impurities. He stood in the middle of it, a safe house, empty except for a scarce scattering of furniture.
"Dante, please..."
Dante's back grew rigid at the sound of the feminine voice. He knew the voice. It surrounded him, soothing him, while somehow also setting off an alarm in his mind.
This isn't right.
"Dante, look…"
He turned, his blood freezing, sludge clogging his veins when those icy blue eyes met him through the darkness. He blinked. Still there. Blinked again. Still there. His forehead creased as those eyes held his gaze. "Genna?"
She stepped closer at the sound of her name, out of the shadows and into the haze, a sliver of moonlight coming from a nearby window catching her. The light glowed around her, and Dante's heart nearly stopped. Months had passed in the haze, a haze where he tried to not think about what might've happened to his sister.
She looked exactly the same.
"Genna," he whispered, tears stinging his eyes as he yanked her into his arms. "I've missed you."
"Dante," the panicked voice gasped in his ear, desperation clinging to every syllable. "It's on fire."
Fire. The word was like a command, a trigger in his brain. The second it registered, he felt the explosion of heat, flash fire blasting through the room and igniting everything. The ground quaked. He winced as pain rushed through his body, flames lapping at his skin. He guarded his sister, knocking her down, covering her with his body, a human shield from the fire, but he wasn't enough to keep her from harm. He was nothing but flesh and bone, muscle and scar tissue, thin skin and frail organs. He was no match for an angry blaze, one determined to consume everything around it.
A scream pierced his ears as his body shook. "Dante!"
His eyes shot open, the fire around him extinguishing at once, smothered by the thick darkness and leaving only the haze. He blinked, coated in sweat, panting as he tried to catch his breath. Another pair of eyes watched him—dark, concerned eyes.
Gabriella stood beside the bed, frightened.
"What's wrong?" he asked, forcing himself up, still groggy.
"It's on fire," she said, her voice trembling.
Dante's back straightened, his expression falling at those words, as he braced himself for a blast of pain that didn't come. It's not a fucking dream, he had to remind himself. Not now. Not anymore.
"What's on fire?" He looked around the room, not smelling any smoke. "What are you talking about? Come here."
He reached for her, having the desperate urge to hold her, to pull her into his arms and feel her breathing, but she resisted, waving toward the window. "I'm serious, Dante. Something is on fire!"
Dante stalked over, dragging Gabriella with him. Thick black smoke touched the night sky, orange glow lighting up part of the neighborhood.
Shit.
"People were yelling," she said. "I don't know what happened, but it was loud enough to wake me. There were a bunch of bangs and I thought those guys were out there fighting again, but then it just exploded."
"It exploded?"
"The ground shook, and then something went whoosh. I don't know if it's a car or a building, but something's burning."
His stomach sank. She was right. Something was burning. And in this neighborhood? It likely wasn't accidental.
Hell doesn't burn unless the devil lets it.
Dante snatched up some clothes and pulled them on, not bothering with any socks before shoving his feet into a pair of shoes. "Stay here, okay? Lock up the apartment behind me."
"Why?" she asked, following him out of the bedroom. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to check things out."
"But—"
He kissed her before she could protest any more and ran out the door.
"Be careful!" she shouted.
Dante scaled the stairs, bursting out into the cold night. Four, maybe five in the morning, he gathered. Dante kept his head down as he hurried down the block, jogging across the street to the corner, his breath surrounding him in an icy cloud.
Flames spilled out the front of a building, shattered glass covering the sidewalk in front of it, mixed with glints of metal. As soon as Dante laid eyes on the place, he knew what was burning.
Casato.
People gathered around outside, shouting, pacing the street, nobody daring get too close to the fire. Dante sprinted to it, forcing his way through the crowd.
"Is everyone okay?" he called out. "Anyone hurt?"
"Don't know," a guy said, eyeing him warily. "If anyone's in there, well, hell, they're already dead. No point looking."
No point. Dante shoved the guy, not liking that answer, and went straight for Casato. The café door stood propped open, how Johnny Amaro kept it. Symbolic, he'd told Genna once. His doors were always open to everyone.
Fuck.
Dante's eyes darted around, hoping the man got out, but he knew better. The glints of metal mixed with the glass caught his eye. Shell casings. Someone had lit up the place with gunfire.
"Call 911!" he yelled.
"Already did," someone said.
"Well, fucking call them again!"
He edged closer the doorway, trying to get a good look inside, but the air was too hazy, already stinging his eyes.
"Jesus fuck," he whispered, grabbing his shirt and pulling the collar up, covering his nose and mouth. "Don't let this be the time I die."
He couldn't think about it, wouldn't chicken out, even though just the thought of fire made him want to pass the fuck out. Taking a deep breath, holding it, he burst through the doorway, dodging the flames edging the doorframe. He had maybe a minute, two at most, before he needed to get back out or he'd risk never making it out at all.
"Amaro!" he shouted, his eyes watering as he searched the smoky haze. "If you can hear me, make a noise or something!"
Dante rounded the counter, heading for the back, and slipped on something in his path. Blood. He grabbed ahold of the countertop to catch himself, pain ripping through his forearm when it hit a patch of flames. Yanking his arm away, hissing, he caught sight of a pair of black dress shoes. Johnny Amaro lay on the floor, bleeding from the chest.
"Amaro!" Dante shouted, choking on the name. His chest burned, lungs begging for more oxygen. Kneeling down, he shook the man, trying to get his attention, trying to force him awake. "Wake up. We need to get out of here."
Johnny stirred, his eyes cracking open, his voice hoarse as he whispered something Dante couldn't understand.
Dante's head pounded in rhythm with his frantic heartbeat, and fuck, his arm throbbed. "We have to go. Can you—?" A coughing fit hit Dante, and he managed to get control of himself just as Johnny's eyes closed again. "Oh fuck no, none of that."
Dante grabbed Johnny, using every bit of adrenaline he had to pull him to his feet. Johnny was heavy, and Dante was growing weak, but he managed to drag him through the cafe, the man having just enough strength left in him to stagger. Dante lugged him outside, dropping him to the sidewalk in front of the burning building.
Dante tore off his shirt, yanking it over his head, and balled it up, pressing it hard against Johnny's chest. They needed to stop the bleeding if the man stood a chance. The crowd still swarmed, people shouting, red and blue lights flashing down the block, fast approaching.
For the first time in his life, Dante was grateful to hear sirens.
Johnny opened his eyes, wheezing. "Dante?"
"Yeah," Dante said. "Just relax, help is on the way."
Johnny's mouth moved, like he had something more to say, but a coughing fit hit him. He hacked, his eyes watering, blood streaming along his lips, managing to vocalize just a single word: "Sorry."
Dante scanned the area as the first responders arrived, having no desire to take some deathbed confession, not wanting to witness the man's last breath. As long as he fought, he'd survive. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks surrounded them. Others took over, and Dante felt like he could take a deep breath again when medics assessed Johnny, giving him the help he needed.
Dante moved out of their way, glancing down the street, catching sight of someone watching from the outskirts of the crowd, standing alone and dressed in all black. Umberto. The moment that Dante caught his eye, Umberto took a few leisurely steps back before turning away. Son of a bitch.
Dante started to go after him, feet moving on their own, but an officer intercepted him along the barrier they'd put up. "Whoa, whoa, where are you going?"
"There's somewhere I need to be."
"You're right," the officer said, "and that somewhere is over there with a medic. You're injured."
"I'm fine," Dante said. "I need—"
He couldn't finish before dissolving into another coughing fit, his face turning red as his lungs struggled, overwhelmed by smoke. Oxygen. He needed fucking oxygen. Doubling over, hands on his knees, he fought to catch his breath.
Medics were on him, leading him to an awaiting ambulance, the back of it wide open. He sat down on the bumper, not fighting them when they forced the oxygen mask over his face. He inhaled deeply, taking it in, as they checked his vitals, covering him with a thermal blanket when he shivered.
"Mr. Galante," a voice chimed in. "Fancy seeing you here."
Dante pulled the mask away, glaring at the redheaded monstrosity in front of him. "Detective Dick, didn't know fires were your jurisdiction."
"They're not, but certain names spark automatic calls to the division. You know how it is."
Yeah, Dante knew. Even a ticket for public intoxication would send the detective straight to him. A fire at a place owned by an Amaro would be enough for the snakes to slither in.
"Look, I know nothing, so don't waste your breath asking questions. I saw the fire from the apartment window so I came down."
"Wrong place, wrong time?"
"Considering the circumstances, I'd say my timing was perfect."
"True." The detective watched as they loaded Johnny Amaro into the back of an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens wailing as it sped off. "And you saw the fire from an apartment window? Which apartment?"
"I don't think that's any of your goddamn business."
"It is," he said, "if that's part of your alibi."
"My alibi? You think I did this?" Dante coughed. "Are you fucking stupid?"
"There's no need to speak that way."
"I just pulled a bleeding man from a burning building, I've got soot in my goddamn lungs, and you're suggesting I might've been the one to cause it? That I might've shot him and set fire to the place? That's the definition of fucking stupid."
His eyebrows rose. "How do you know he was shot?"
"There are expended shells on the sidewalk. He had a hole in his chest. Seriously, Detective, do I have to do your fucking job for you? It doesn't take a genius to put those pieces together. Maybe if you were better at investigating, this shit wouldn't keep happening around here."
Dante slipped the oxygen mask back on, done with that conversation. He shouldn't have entertained it to begin with. He closed his eyes and lowering his head, trying to fucking breathe, until his name was shouted from down the street. "Dante!"
Gabriella ran right for him, wearing a t-shirt and tiny shorts with no shoes on, her bare feet slapping against the frozen pavement. She skirted around the barrier, slipping under the yellow caution tape. Officers tried to stop her, shouting for her to get back, but she ignored them.
Jesus, she's going to get tased.
Yanking the mask off, Dante tossed it aside and pushed away from the ambulance, heading for her. The officers backed off, letting her continue, and she slammed right into him, wrapping her arms around him, nearly knocking him on his ass. He winced, staggering, stroking her hair. She was shaking. "I told you to stay in the apartment."
"And I told you to be careful!" She pulled away, looking him over, a cloud of breath surrounding her as she damn near hyperventilated. "What happened? Where's your shirt? Why are you burnt?"
"Long story," he said. "I'm fine."
As if to accentuate that point, he hacked yet again, grasping his chest, coughing so violently his vision dimmed. It hurt.
"You're not fine." Gabriella forced his face up, studying it, before grabbing his arm and lifting. "You're suffering from smoke inhalation, and this? This is a second-degree burn. You need to raise it up to keep the swelling down. And you need oxygen."
"I was getting som
e," he said, motioning to the ambulance, "until you decided to defy law enforcement and burst onto a crime scene."
"A crime scene?" Her eyes darted to the burning building. The firefighters were busy putting the flames out, salvaging whatever might remain. "Casato? It wasn't open, right? So nobody was inside, right?" She turned to him, eyes wide. "Right?"
"Amaro was there."
"Which Amaro?"
"Johnny."
"Oh God." Gabriella grasped her messy hair as she paced in circles, teeth chattering. "Uncle Johnny? Did he…? Is he…?"
Dante lowered his arm. "I pulled him out."
"You what? Are you crazy?"
"I couldn't just stand around," Dante said, "not knowing he was in there."
"Was he okay?"
"He was alive."
"Did he get burned?"
"A bit, but more concerning is the bullet he took to the chest."
Gabriella stared at him, her mouth agape, tears in her eyes. Dante pulled her back to him, kissing her temple, before leading her past the barrier, away from the chaos, out of the damn cold. She was in too much shock to argue, saying not a word the whole way back to the apartment. Once inside, Dante headed for the bathroom and turned on the cool water, wincing when he put his arm under the spray. He leaned into the counter, his head resting against his shoulder, and closed his eyes as he waited for the searing pain to fade. Gabriella's voice rang through the apartment, on the phone, frantically calling her family.
Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes.
"They're trying to find Gavin," Gabriella said, stepping into the bathroom and turning off the running water. "Nobody has seen him since the wedding. He left around the same time we did, said he had somewhere to be, but he didn't tell anybody where."
Dante opened his eyes and stood up straight as Gabriella shifted seamlessly into Nurse Russo, tending to his burn. His jaw clenched as she rubbed ointment on it, her touch gentle but son of a bitch it stung.
"Gavin will resurface," Dante said as soon as the pain subsided enough for him to form words. "He always does."