The gilded elevator doors slid closed on his impassive face.
My body swayed, the dizziness from blood loss rising in nauseating waves. The chandelier above fractured into a thousand spinning diamonds.
In the blur of agony, memory dragged me backward—back to a different time. Back to when we were young and the world hadn't yet taught us its cruelest lessons.
Colino was just nineteen when his father began grooming him to inherit the Family. He'd worked through endless nights learning the business—both legitimate and otherwise—his eyes perpetually rimmed with exhaustion. One evening, I burned my hand while making soup for him in the estate's kitchen. Just a small blister, barely worth mentioning.
Yet somehow, he found out. He stormed out of a sit-down with three capos and drove home like the devil himself was chasing him, running every red light between the social club and the compound.
He grabbed my hand and cradled it like I was made of spun glass.
"I'm so sorry, tesoro. I should've protected you," he said, his voice rough with guilt. "I swear on my mother's grave—as long as I'm breathing, I'll never let anything hurt you again."