Serafina’s POV
The safe house was never meant to last.
I knew that the moment we arrived,ba narrow apartment above an abandoned tailoring shop, windows boarded from the inside, electricity pulled from a neighboring line. Temporary places always carried a particular smell. Dust. Cold metal. Fear that had learned how to wait.
Matteo checked the locks for the third time while I stood at the sink, washing dried blood from my hands.
Not mine.
His.
The water ran red, then clear. I turned it off and leaned back against the counter, pressing my palms into the chipped porcelain until the trembling stopped.
“You’re bleeding again,” I said.
“I’ll live.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glanced over his shoulder. His jacket was off, his shirt half torn where the bullet had grazed his arm. The woun
