Page 89 of His Savage Ruin
"Or what?" The shock is already fading from his face, replaced by rage that makes his features twist into something ugly and terrifying. "You'll hit me again? You think that will stop me?"
He lunges for me and I shove him as hard as I can, putting all my weight behind it, desperate to create space between us even if it's only for a second.
But I've forgotten that we're standing near the French doors that lead out to the second-floor balcony and Lorenzo stumbles backward, his arms pinwheeling as he tries to catch his balance, and I watch in horror as he hits the railing.
It happens so fast that my brain can't keep up with what my eyes are seeing. One second, he's there with rage still painted across his features, and the next he's gone. Over the railing and into the darkness below with nothing but a choked-off sound.
I stand frozen at the broken railing when I hear it from below—a wet, heavy sound that makes my stomach drop through the floor.
My legs move without conscious thought, carrying me out of the bedroom and toward the stairs while my mind is still trying to catch up with reality. My bare feet hit the marble stairs so fast I nearly slip, and I have to grab the railing to keep from falling as I take the steps two at a time.
"Please don't be dead," I whisper, and the words come out broken and desperate even though I'm not sure what I want the answer to be. "Please, please don't be dead."
The patio doors are open and the curtains billow in the night breeze. I can see him from here, sprawled on the stone tiles in a way that bodies aren't supposed to lie, and there's so much darkness spreading underneath him that my brain refuses to process what it means.
My legs give out when I reach him, and I drop to my knees so hard the impact sends pain shooting up through my bones. The stones are cold and wet beneath me, and it takes my mind a full second to understand that the wetness soaking into my nightgown is blood, still warm enough that I can feel the heat of it against my skin.
"Lorenzo." His name tears out of my throat, and I reach for him with hands that won't stop shaking. "Lorenzo, wake up."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alessia
Two months earlier
His head is wrong, tilted at an angle that makes nausea rise in my throat. Blood mats his dark hair, pools beneath his skull, spreads across expensive stone in patterns that look almost decorative in the moonlight.
I press my fingers to his throat, searching for a pulse, and the stillness beneath my touch makes panic spike through my chest. Nothing at first, and then—there, so faint I almost miss it. A flutter beneath my fingertips, weak and irregular.
"No, no, no." I start pressing against his chest, trying to keep his heart beating even though my hands are shaking so badly I can barely maintain any kind of rhythm. "You can't die. Lorenzo, please. You have to stay alive."
Because if he dies, the Morettis will want to know how it happened, and the truth will get me killed.
His eyes flutter open for just a second, unfocused and glazed with pain, and his lips move around words I can barely hear. I lean closer without thinking, and that's when I catch it—that whispered rasp that sounds like it's being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
"Bambola mia."
My doll. Even dying, even with his skull cracked open and his blood painting the stones, he still thinks he owns me.
Then his eyes go empty, staring past me at nothing, and I feel the last breath leave his lungs in a rattle that makes my stomach drop. The faint pulse beneath my fingers stutters once, twice, then stops completely.
"No." I keep pressing against his chest even though I know it's useless, even though I can feel that he's already gone. "Please don't do this. You can't leave me like this."
But he's dead. Lorenzo Moretti is dead, and I killed him.
My hands freeze on his chest, and I can't make them move again. My vision narrows to just Lorenzo's face, those empty eyes staring past me at nothing, and I can't look away even though I want to.
What have I done? What have I done? What have I fucking done?
My stomach heaves, and I barely manage to turn away before I'm retching onto the stones beside Lorenzo's body. Nothing comes up except bile that burns my throat, but my body keeps trying anyway, muscles clenching until my ribs ache.
The Morettis will kill me for this. They'll find out what happened and they'll make me pay. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get them under control, and when I try to stand, my legs won't support me.
I need to run. Need to get out of here before someone comes. But where would I go? The Morettis have eyes everywhere, connections that reach into every corner of Chicago and beyond. There's nowhere I could hide that they wouldn't eventually find me.
Unless I can convince them, it wasn't me.
The thought cuts through the panic with sudden clarity. If they believe someone else did this, if they think outside enemies murdered Lorenzo while I was helpless to stop it, then I'm not a threat. I'm a victim. I'm someone who needs their protection instead of someone who deserves their vengeance.
