I didn't answer right away. Instead, I leaned slightly against him, using his arm for support, grounding myself. Rain ran down both of us. Somewhere behind the wreck, a siren started up. Luca's jacket smelled like clean wool and nothing else, no gunpowder, no cologne chosen to intimidate.
"Luca," I said quietly after a moment, my voice hoarse, "you're a top lawyer, right?"
He met my gaze, clearly confused by the question, but nodded anyway.
I managed a faint, fragile smile. "Then… could I trouble you to draw up a dissolution agreement for me?"
At the hospital, the one on Mulberry Street that operated under Falcone influence, where the nurses knew not to ask questions and the intake forms never told the full truth, the diagnosis came quickly.
A fractured shoulder, crushed from the impact.
Multiple other injuries. Bruises, cuts, internal strain. They kept me under observation in case of a concussion, monitoring me through the night.
Two days passed.
Dante didn't call once.
Not a message. Not a question. Nothing.
In the end, I signed my own discharge papers, the pen steady in my hand despite everything. No one came to pick me up.
No one needed to.