"Slow down. Take a breath. Tell me what happened."
"We crashed. Dante swerved to avoid a deer, and the car rolled. He's unconscious, and there's so much blood, and I think he might have a concussion or worse."
"Okay, okay. Where are you?"
I send her my location through the phone, my hands still shaking as I navigate the apps.
"Got it," Gianna says, and I can hear Elena's voice in the background asking what's happening. "There's a Rosso safehouse about half a mile from where you are. I'm sending you the location now. We can have someone there within an hour to pick you up."
"No!" The word comes out sharper than I intended. "If they come, they'll take me back to Vito. This is my chance, Gianna. This might be my only chance to get away."
"Sofia..." Elena's voice comes through the phone now, and I realize Gianna has put me on speaker. "You can't just leave him there. If you abandon Dante in this condition, he could die."
The reality of my situation sinks in. I look at Dante's pale face, at the blood still seeping from his wound, and something twists in my chest.
"He's one of them," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my ears.
"But he's also the one who's been protecting you," Gianna says gently. "He's the one who's kept you safe this whole time. Are you really going to let him die just to escape?"
I close my eyes, feeling torn in two different directions. This is my chance. Maybe my only chance to get away before whatever they decided at that meeting happens. But the thought of leaving Dante here, injured and helpless, makes me physically sick.
"I... I need to think."
"Sofia—"
"I'll call you back."
I hang up before either of them can argue, then sit in the wrecked car listening to the rain and Dante's labored breathing.
He would do it for me. If the situation were reversed, if I were the one hurt and unconscious, he would get me to safety. Even if it meant missing his chance to escape, even if it complicated everything.
Because that's who he is. That's who he's always been, despite everything else.
Fuck.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I mutter, then grab Dante under the arms and start trying to pull him from the car.
It takes twenty minutes and every ounce of strength I have to get him out of the wreckage and onto the muddy ground. He's dead weight, all muscle and bulk, and by the time I manage it, I'm soaked to the bone and covered in mud.
The safehouse location Gianna sent shows it's half a mile up the road. Half a mile of dragging an unconscious man through a storm.
"You better be worth this, Dante Mancini," I say through gritted teeth as I start the exhausting process of getting him to safety.
It takes over an hour. I have to stop every few minutes to rest, to check that he's still breathing, to wipe the rain and blood from his face. By the time I finally reach the gate with the keypad, my shoulders are screaming and my legs feel like jelly.
The code Gianna gave me works, thank God, and the safehouse is small but warm and dry. I manage to get Dante onto the couch, then spend another twenty minutes cleaning his wounds with supplies from a first aid kit I find in the bathroom.
The cut on his forehead is deep but not life-threatening. I bandage it as best I can, then cover him with blankets and check his pulse again. Still weak, but steady.
He's going to be okay. Probably.
Now I need to figure out what I'm going to do.
I find a bag in one of the bedrooms and start throwing things into it—clothes, money I find in a drawer, anything that might be useful. My plan is simple: wait until the storm passes, then disappear before anyone realizes where we are.
I'm in the middle of packing when I hear a soft sound from the living room.
"Sofia?"
