Chapter 3

Antiseptic. That was the first thing — sharp and sterile, burning the back of my throat before I even opened my eyes.

The ceiling was white. The light was flat, institutional. Not Miami. Not Ocean Drive.

A weight pressed against my right hand — warm, familiar, wrong. I turned my head and found Dante folded into the chair beside my bed, his fingers laced through mine, his forehead resting against the edge of the mattress. He was still in last night's clothes — black shirt creased, collar open, the Moretti crest on his forearm half-hidden against the sheet. Faint shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.

And there — just below his jaw, on the side of his neck — a smear of red. Lipstick. Sienna's shade.

I pulled my hand back.

He woke like every Moretti did — no groggy transition, just eyes open, body tensed, already scanning. Old habit. His father used to run drills on the boys when they were kids. Be ready. Always be ready.

His gaze found mine. Something shifted behind it — not guilt, not quite. Something closer to relief. He reached for my hand again, caught it, brought my knuckles to his face and pressed them against the hard line of his jaw. Held them there. The stubble scratched my skin, and for one awful second my body remembered being seventeen — his jaw under my fingertips, his bedroom window open to the summer, everything still possible.

"It was nothing." His voice was low, scraped raw. "The crowd pushed it. The set got out of hand. That kiss — it wasn't planned, Nora. It didn't mean a goddamn thing."

I looked at him. At the mouth that had been on hers. At the lipstick he hadn't bothered to wipe off.

I withdrew my hand. Not a yank — something slower. Deliberate. Like pulling a thread from a seam.

"Okay," I said. "I believe you."

He went rigid. I watched his eyes track across my face — hunting for the breakdown, the tremor in my chin, the wet lashes. The things he was used to managing.

He found none of it.

That scared him more than tears ever had.

He shifted forward, elbows to knees, the leather of his watch creaking. "Nora, listen to me—"

"I want food." I kept my eyes on the ceiling. "There was a Cuban spot near the venue. Pastelitos. Can you go?"

A beat. I could feel him weighing it — the capo's instinct to control the room warring with the boyfriend's need to seem accommodating.

"Alright." He stood. His hand found my shoulder — grip firm, thumb dragging once across my collarbone before pulling away. Possession dressed up as comfort. "Don't move. I'll be ten minutes."

The door clicked shut behind him.

It opened again before I drew my next breath.

Sienna walked in carrying white lisianthus wrapped in black paper. She placed them on the bedside table like an offering — gently, almost reverently — then stepped back to admire the arrangement.

"You know what these stand for?" She adjusted a bloom with one burgundy nail. "Devotion without hope." Her mouth curved. "Seemed right."

I stared at the petals. Didn't speak.

She pulled the chair closer — Dante's chair, still warm from his body — and sat down, one knee crossed over the other, posture loose, unhurried. The posture of a woman who had never once questioned where she ranked.

"Since you're stuck in bed, I'll keep it brief." She examined her cuticles. "His first kiss was with me. Junior year, green room, right after our first show. Tasted like bad tequila and nerves."

The sheet twisted between my fingers.

"The first person who made him lose sleep — actually kept him up at night, couldn't eat, couldn't focus, had to leave the room because he couldn't think straight?" She leaned closer. Her perfume reached me first — vanilla and something darker, muskier, expensive. "Me."

My stomach clenched. Bile crept up the back of my throat, sour and immediate.

"And the first woman he talked about taking to the altar. Making her a Moretti wife, the whole thing — the ring, the ceremony at St. Patrick's, the Don's blessing." Her lips hovered near my ear, breath warm against my skin. "That was me, Nora. It was always me."

I lurched sideways and gagged — a harsh, racking sound that bent me double. Nothing came up. My hand pressed over my mouth, eyes stinging, ribs aching from the force of it.

Sienna leaned back. Crossed her ankles. Waited.

"Don't worry." Her tone was almost bored. "I'm not going to stage some little scene — pretend you pushed me, make a big show." Her eyes flicked toward the corridor, where footsteps were approaching. "I don't have to. When it counts, he picks me. Every single time. You already know that."

Her hand moved fast.

The slap cracked across my cheek before I registered her arm swinging — open-palmed, precise, hard enough to whip my head sideways. Pain bloomed from my cheekbone to my temple, bright and clean, throbbing instantly.

I swung back. Pure reflex — my fist arcing toward her jaw —

Dante's hand closed around my wrist mid-air.

His grip was iron. Not painful — controlled. The grip of a man trained to restrain without leaving marks.

He'd come through the door at exactly the wrong second. Seen exactly the wrong half.

I looked up at him.

His eyes weren't on me. They were on Sienna — sweeping her face, checking her cheek, her lip, cataloguing damage with the focused urgency he reserved for people who actually mattered to him. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.

Something inside my chest didn't break. It just — went quiet. Like a frequency cutting out. Like a sound you'd been hearing so long you only noticed it once it stopped.

He hadn't seen her hit me.

And if he had, it wouldn't have changed anything. I knew that the way I knew his cologne, his footsteps, the exact pressure of his hand on my waist — through years of study, years of watching, years of being the woman who paid attention to a man who never once returned the favor.

Sienna lifted both palms, eyes wide with practiced innocence.

"I brought your girl flowers, Dante. Came all the way to this shitty hospital to check on her." She gestured at me with a wounded look. "She took one look at me and started dry-heaving. Real sweet."

Dante dropped my wrist. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled through his teeth — a sound I'd heard a thousand times. The sound of a man who considered both women his problem but only one worth solving.

"Go, Sienna." Low. Tight. "Stop provoking her. Take the crew, fly back to New York. I'll stay."

Sienna scoffed and drove her elbow into his ribs. "Choosing pussy over family. Nice, Moretti."

The tension left his shoulders. He reached over and ruffled her hair — rough, familiar, the kind of gesture that carried years inside it — then pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and draped it over her. His hands lingered on the collar, tugging it snug around her neck.

"You never dress for the weather. When you end up sick, don't call me begging for soup."

She swatted him away, already halfway to the door. "Whatever, asshole."

Eight seconds. That was all it took. A jacket. A touch. An ease between them so practiced it didn't need an audience.

He turned back to me. The warmth left his face like a door closing. He set the bakery bag on the blanket across my lap.

"Eat."

I looked at the bag. At the white flowers on the nightstand. At the red mark still pulsing on my cheek — perfectly aligned with the shape of her hand.

Dante pulled out his phone and started scrolling.

I picked up the pastelito. Bit into it. Tasted nothing.