He clamped a hand over my mouth. His men grabbed for Valentina, trying to pry her from my arms and drag her away. She was already gasping between sobs, and now their hands smothered her mouth and nose. Her face went from red to a mottled purple.
I stopped thinking. I sank my teeth into Dante's hand until I tasted blood.
Then I broke free and ran, stumbling into the banquet hall where the Commission's guests sat with their drinks half-raised, locking onto that one familiar figure, and screamed:
"Marco Lombardi! You're the Family's doctor! Save my daughter!"
Marco spun around. His eyes went wide, shock and disbelief tangled together, and then something fierce and bright broke through. Joy. Raw, unguarded joy.
"You're alive?"
He rushed to me. His hands went to his sleeves, rolling them to the forearm with two precise folds, automatic, clinical. On the second fold, his fingers trembled. Then he reached for Valentina, pressing his hands to the wound to stanch the bleeding.
The commotion reached the far end of the room where the head table was set. Rosalia Valenti tilted her head, her gaze drifting down toward the disturbance.
"Who was that woman just now? Her voice sounds so familiar."