The morning after the warehouse firefight, I woke to find Dante already dressed, standing by the window with his phone pressed to his ear. His shoulder was freshly bandaged, and despite the injury, he looked every inch the mafia don commanding, dangerous, untouchable.
Until he turned and saw me awake, and something in his expression softened.
"I'll call you back," he said into the phone, ending the conversation without waiting for a response. He crossed to the bed, sitting on the edge beside me. "How are you feeling?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one who got shot."
"Grazed. There's a difference." His fingers traced my cheekbone. "I meant emotionally. Last night, you killed someone. Your second time. That's not something that gets easier."
I thought about the Volkov I'd shot. The way he'd dropped. The blood spreading beneath him. I waited for the guilt, the horror, the breakdown everyone said would come.
It didn't.
