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He'd taken that bullet for me.

I collapsed onto the edge of the cold bench, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, teeth chattering so hard I couldn't form a complete sentence.

The moment before he went down was seared into my retinas like a brand.

Those usually calm, bright gray-green eyes had glazed over with blood. He'd looked at me once, just once, then dropped.

"Ruby!!"

Frantic high heels and rapid footsteps echoed from the elevator.

Isabella came running, her black coat disheveled, hair wild, eyes red-rimmed—this woman who usually embodied perfect society grace. In her arms was Leon, safe and sound.

"Mamma!"

Leon spotted me on the bench and struggled free, running like a frightened animal straight into my arms.

"Mamma, there's so much blood on you..." His small hand touched the dried blood on my clothes, his gray-green eyes full of fear. "Mamma, I'm scared..."

I held him tight. Tears finally broke through.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay..." I kissed his forehead over and over, trembling as I repeated the words.

"Where's Marcelo?" Leon looked up at me. "Where's the tall Marcelo?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

"He's inside," Isabella said, kneeling beside us. Her eyes were red too, but she was fighting to stay composed. "The doctor said he was wearing a vest. The bullet didn't penetrate, but the impact caused severe internal bleeding and multiple fractured ribs. They're operating now."

"He'll... he'll be okay, right?" I looked at her, voice desperate and pleading.

Isabella bit her lip and gripped my hand tight. "He will. Daddy's strong. He won't leave you two."

We waited.

Forty-eight hours. I didn't sleep.

I changed out of the blood-soaked clothes and scrubbed my hands raw in the bathroom, scouring the blood from under my nails with cold water until my skin turned red and angry. I kept watch outside the ICU through the transparent glass, staring at that tall man inside, tubes and lines snaking into him—drainage tubes, ventilator, IV lines.

Leon slept in my arms one night before I sent him home with Isabella.

I'd keep watch. That was enough.

On the third morning, the lead surgeon finally emerged from the isolation door, exhausted. "We've cleared the bone fragments from the lung. The internal bleeding's completely stopped. I've got to say, Mr. Moretti's got the will of a goddamn monster. He pulled through."

My legs gave out. I nearly hit the floor.

"Thank you... thank you..." I grabbed the doctor's arm, stammering incoherently.

"However." The doctor looked at me seriously. "When he wakes up, he may be pretty agitated. You need to be prepared. Also, he needs at least three months of rest. No strenuous activity whatsoever."

"I know. I'll watch him."

The doctor nodded and left.

I stood in that corridor and finally let myself cry.

Three days later, at ten in the morning, Marcelo was moved from ICU to a private recovery room.