Page 14 of Devil Among Men

The door slams open, and the whole room goes still for one suspended second.

Maurizio half carries, half drags Rafael through the entrance, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage wrapped around his midsection, his face pale and slick with sweat, barely conscious, feet dragging uselessly with each step Maurizio forces forward.

“Rafael!” I move without deciding to, hands hovering uselessly the same way Adagio’s did the night of the fire, terrified of making anything worse by touching wrong.

“Get him to the bed. I already called the doctor. She’s discreet. Ten minutes out.”

We get him onto the narrow bed together, and I press my palms against the wound without thinking, applying pressure the way I remember from some first-aid class I took years ago and never expected to actually use in a moment like this.

“Stay with me. Rafael, look at me. Stay with me.”

His eyes flutter open briefly, unfocused, finding mine for just a second before sliding shut again. “Portia.”

“I’m here.” Tears blur my vision now, hot and useless, doing nothing to help the actual crisis in front of me. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The doctor arrives in what feels like both seconds and an eternity, a sharp-eyed older woman introduced only as Dr. Renata, who takes one look at the scene and starts issuing orders in rapid Italian, motioning for space, for hot water, for anything sterile Concetta can find on short notice. Someone pulls me back from the bed, useless again, and I watch from the doorway as she works, hands steady, movements sure, cutting away Rafael’s shirt to get a clear look at the wound.

She doesn’t flinch at the blood the way I do. She just works, murmuring instructions to Maurizio, who holds Rafael down through the worst of it, keeping him from thrashing while she cleans and probes the wound for anything that shouldn’t be left inside him. Rafael groans once, low and guttural, a sound that scrapes straight down my spine, and I press my knuckles against my mouth to keep from making a sound of my own.

Jayla wraps an arm around me from behind, and I let myself lean into her the way I haven’t allowed myself to lean into anyone since this whole nightmare started, watching the only man I’ve ever loved bleed out on a stranger’s bed in a country neither of us was born in.

I’ve never felt more helpless in my entire life.

The doctor finishes an hour later, exhausted but satisfied, explaining in broken English that the bullet missed anything vital, he’ll need rest and antibiotics and careful monitoring, but he’ll survive this. I barely hear half of what she says, too busy watching Rafael’s chest rise and fall, steady now, proof he’s still here despite everything the past couple of days tried to take from us.

Everyone clears out eventually, giving us space. I pull a chair beside the bed and take his hand in both of mine. His skin is cool and clammy against my palms, and I press my thumb gently against his wrist, counting his pulse just to have a steady rhythm to focus on, proof of life I can measure and hold.

I think about every version of tonight that could have gone differently. A few inches to the left, and this conversation never happens because there’s no one left to have it with. A few seconds slower getting him out of that port, and Maurizio’s carrying a body instead of a barely-breathing man. I think about the argument we had before he left, the anger I let sit between us instead of softening it, and I hate myself a little for how much of our last real conversation was spent fighting instead of holding each other.

I also think about every version of my life before Rafael, back when danger meant a late-night phone call about a story gone sideways instead of a man bleeding out on a bed in front of me. I used to believe I understood risk. I covered it for a living, stood outside crime scenes describing the aftermath in clean, professional sentences for people watching from the safety of their living rooms. None of that prepared me for this—for loving someone enough that his blood on my hands feels like my own wound, for realizing danger isn’t a story anymore; it’s the only life I’ve got left to hold onto.

He stirs sometime later, eyes fluttering open, hazy with whatever the doctor gave him for pain.

“Portia…”

“Don’t talk. Rest.”

“You’re still here.” Surprise crosses his face, like he expected me to have left the second the crisis passed, like sitting beside him through this was ever a question in my mind.

“Where else would I be?”

“We fought.” His eyes struggle to stay open, exhaustion pulling at him even as he fights it. “I thought⁠—”

“I know what we fought about.” I brush a strand of hair back from his forehead, my hand trembling slightly despite my best efforts to steady it. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

“It matters.” His hand tightens weakly around mine, barely more than a twitch of pressure, but I feel it anyway, feel what it costs him. “I almost didn’t come back. There was a second, lying on that dock bleeding, where I genuinely didn’t think I would.”

My breath catches painfully in my chest. “Don’t.”

“I need to say it,” he says. “I thought about you the whole time. Not the mission, not Vito, not any of it. Just you and how angry I was that the last thing I said to you before leaving wasn’t gentler.”

“You told me to stay safe. That wasn’t nothing.”

“It wasn’t enough. I love you. I need you to know that. Whatever happens next, whatever’s still broken between us because of what I didn’t tell you, that’s never once been in question. Not for one single day since I met you.”

I press his hand against my cheek instead, letting myself feel the warmth returning slowly to his skin, the proof he’s still breathing.

“I was so scared. Watching Adagio’s face when he walked through that door, I knew before he said anything. And all I could think about was every angry thing I’d said to you and how unfair it would be if those were the last words you ever heard from me.”