An hour passed in silence since Marco Bellanti opened his eyes and whispered that one word—“Bella.”
Not loud or dramatic.
Just there.
Like a key turning in a lock long rusted shut.
He’d said it for weeks—always with that cocky smirk, always when she was trying to ignore him, always just to get under her skin. Bella. As if he had the right. As if she’d ever let him close enough to mean it.
But this time?
This time, it wasn’t a line.
It was a breath pulled from the edge of death.
Then Marco opened his eyes again.
He blinked once. Then again. His gaze found Elena first—kneeling beside the bed, hand resting on the rail, dark circles beneath her eyes like war paint. Then Dante—slouched in a chair, feet up, pretending to sleep, but his fingers twitching over his burner phone like a man
