It's not my blood. I try to speak, but the words die on my lips.
"And like I said," irritation colors Dante's voice when he replies, "she is okay. It's not her blood. It's mine. I'm fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."
Vito stares at Dante expressionlessly before pointing down the hall. "Clean her up and then take her to my office. Rina, Elena, and Gianna are in there, bring Luca when you come back." He doesn't wait for Dante's affirming nod; he turns on his heel and angrily begins righting all the furniture that was moved or knocked around during the fight.
My eyes are still jumping around the penthouse, taking in everything from the bullet hole polka dots adorning the walls to the broken chair leg impaling one of the assailants to the glass and shell casings littering the floor around the other bodies.
Gentle pressure returns to my back; Dante directs me to the bathroom and props the door open. Pointing to the closed toilet lid, he grunts. "Sit."
No energy to argue, I comply. Dante pulls a rag from a cabinet drawer and dampens it in the sink. Tenderly, he cups my chin with one hand and works at cleaning the blood off my face with the other. "Are you okay?"
The genuine concern in his voice throws me off. "I'm not the one that was shot."
He chuckles, giving extra attention to the blood dried into my hairline. "I wasn't shot, just got nicked by part of the table. If anything, the table was the one shot tonight, so if you're giving out sympathy cards, the table should be the next one on your list."
The corner of my lip pulls in a smile. "I'll make sure to say goodbye to the table on my way out. I have to thank it for saving my life."
"Hey, what about me?" He jokingly tosses the rag to the counter and winces, forgetting about his injury. "I'm fairly certain I remember flipping the table over."
"You've made my life a living hell for a week, and you want me to thank you?"
"You're welcome."
"No—that's not—" I cut myself off as a smirk stretches across his face. "You're infuriating."
"Says the one who's been trying to sneak out all week." His voice drops in exasperation as he pulls his shirt over his head to examine the damage to his shoulder. "You're not exactly a ray of sunshine either, Sofia."
I can't afford to be a ray of sunshine, I think, unable to tear my eyes from his bare chest. Tattoos contour and curl around his natural, toned muscles. Forcing my eyes away from the lines leading down his abdomen, I reach for the washcloth and splashsome clean water on it. He looks at me quizzically as I stand and point to the closed toilet. "Sit."
"You don't have to do that. Rafa can patch me up. I'm sure they're waiting for you in Vito's study."
"You saved my life, let me help. Sit." That smirk of his must be a permanent feature, because his crooked smile is back when he trades places with me. "Is there a first aid kit in here?"
"Far left under the sink."
For such a lavish home, there's something comforting about the obnoxious, telltale red of the first aid kit when I pull it out and lay it on the counter. His gash is deep, but thankfully not deep enough to need stitches. After cleaning around the wound itself, I pour some antiseptic on a gauze pad and hold it against the open skin. He sucks in a sharp breath and his eyebrows pull together, and I can't help but laugh. "Aww, the big, tough Rosso Enforcer—brought down by some simple antiseptic."
"Next time, I'll let the table fragment hit you."
I don't answer. We both know that no matter how serious his tone is, he won't let anything hurt me—not another man, and certainly not an inanimate airborne piece of wood. All the adrenaline and chaos cut our conversation on the balcony short, but the memory of it hangs between us. He didn't like the attention Marco and I were giving each other; the jealousy lit a fire in his eyes when he leaned over me on the balcony.
By the time we're done cleaning up, Vito and his group are in the living room whispering in heated conversation. As instructed, Dante shows me into Vito's study and nods for Luca to join the rest of the capos. Dante gives me one last look, seeming to study my face before closing the door.
"Oh, thank god," Rina throws her arms around me, dried tear stains on her cheeks. "Vito told us not to come out, but you were nowhere to be seen. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." Gianna gives a small, bored wave from Vito's desk chair. Elena lounges on a loveseat that looks like it had been pushed to block the door. "Where's Mamma?"
"I saw Dario close her in a different room. I'm sure she's fine." Elena looks over, squinting at me. "What happened to your eyeliner?"
"Long story." Gunshots echo in my mind again. Glass shatters and Dante pulls me behind a table. How many people died here tonight? My chest tightens again, freezing me in my own body as if I were back on the balcony. If the Costellos are willing to make a direct attack on the Don's penthouse, what's next? The only other path of escalation is to just take what they want themselves. The blood drains from my face, and every breath comes in short gasps.
"Sofia..." Gianna tries to catch my attention, but the room spins around me as I struggle to catch my breath.
"I have to get out of here," my voice is barely above a whisper. "I have to go."
"Sofia, wait—" Rina tries to catch me by the arm, but I slip out of her grasp and yank open the study doors.
Tears blur my vision, and I stumble over more displaced furniture. Yelling breaks out throughout the penthouse as I race to the elevator. The doors open, and I pound on the buttons, willing them to close faster. The doors start to move, and for a brief second I think I might actually pull this off.
