Chapter 23: CHAPTER 23 — Lilianna

Pain is strange.

It comes in waves — sharp one moment, a dull, dragging ache the next. It blurs edges, distorts sound, turns the world into fractured pieces of color and voice and memory.

I drift somewhere between consciousness and dark water.

But one thing cuts through everything:

Matteo’s voice.

Deep. Rough. Breaking.

“Stay with me, Lilianna. Don’t close your eyes.”

I want to tell him I’m trying. I want to answer. But my throat won’t work, my body feels weightless, and my arm burns in a way that makes the rest of the world disappear.

I feel movement — the jolt of a car stopping, doors flying open, cold air hitting my skin.

Then chaos.

Voices shouting.

Footsteps running.

“Matteo, what happened?!”

Camila.

I try to lift my head. I can’t.

“She’s bleeding,” Matteo growls. “Petrov’s men — bullet to the shoulder. She lost too much blood. Help me get her inside.”

Hands slide under me, but Matteo refuses to let go. I feel it even in the fog — the desperation in the way he holds me, the tension in his arms, the fury in the tremor of his breath.

“Callum—” I breathe, barely forming the word.

“I’ve got him,” Camila says gently, suddenly close. “He’s safe. He’s okay. You focus on breathing for me, sweetheart.”

Her voice is soft. Terrified. She’s trying to hide the fear. She’s failing.

I’m moved again — into warmth, light, the smell of antiseptic and linen.

My vision clears enough to make out Camila’s face above mine, worried, determined, working fast. She’s not a doctor, but she’s patched enough bullet wounds to be more than qualified.

Matteo hovers at my side like a caged storm.

“Camila, talk to me,” he snaps.

“Get out of my way,” she snaps right back.

I would laugh if I wasn’t dying.

Camila pulls scissors through my sleeve, baring the wound. Blood streaks her hands. Mine. Matteo’s.

“Bullet went straight through,” she mutters, relief and fear tangled in her voice. “Lucky. But she’s in shock. Matteo, I need—”

“I’m here,” he says instantly.

He always is.

He always was.

Even when I wasn’t ready to let him be.

Camila pushes gauze into my wound, and I cry out — a choked sound — but Matteo catches my face in his hands.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at her. Don’t look at anything else.”

He’s shaking.

I’ve never seen Matteo Costello shake.

I blink up at him, vision blurring, then clearing, then blurring again.

He’s closer now, his forehead nearly touching mine.

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Just breathe.”

I do.

Barely.

Camila stitches me in sharp, quick motions. I flinch with every pull of the needle, every tug of flesh, but Matteo never lets go of my face. He keeps me anchored, tethered, alive.

After what feels like forever, Camila exhales hard.

“She’s stable,” she says, dropping bloody gauze into a metal tray. “Weak — but stable. Bullet missed anything life-threatening.”

Matteo sags, just for a second.

His forehead drops to my shoulder — my good one — and I feel the shaky breath he releases against my skin. Relief. Fear. Something deeper.

I lift my fingers to his hair.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

He flinches.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “You’re not.”

His voice is a rasp of gravel and emotion. His hand finds my jaw again, thumb brushing my cheek.

“You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have.” His jaw clenches. “Because of me.”

Something inside me cracks.

“No,” I whisper. “Because of him. Because of Petrov.”

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

Then—

His voice drops to the softest, most dangerous thing I’ve ever heard.

“Don’t you ever put yourself between me and a bullet again. Do you understand me?”

I smile faintly. “Then don’t get shot.”

He freezes.

Then — strangest thing — he laughs. A low, disbelieving sound that barely makes it past his lips.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“And you love that.”

His eyes lift to mine, and something dark and devastating flickers through them.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I do.”

Silence stretches between us — thick, heavy, trembling with everything we’ve never said.

Then a tiny voice breaks it.

“Momma?”

My heart stops.

Everything stops.

Callum.

I turn my head — slowly, painfully — and there he is, peeking from behind Camila’s leg.

His curls messy.

His pajamas wrinkled.

His eyes wide and frightened.

And he’s staring at the blood on my clothes. The bandage. The trembling in my hands.

“Oh, sweetheart…” My voice cracks.

He breaks into a run before Camila can stop him.

“Callum!” Matteo barks, instinctively reaching out — but too late.

Callum throws himself gently against my uninjured side, arms wrapping around me.

I cry out softly — from pain, yes, but mostly from everything else.

His little body. His warmth. His fear.

“I’m okay,” I whisper into his hair. “Momma’s okay, baby.”

“You’re bleeding…” His voice trembles. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I breathe. “But not as much now that you’re here.”

Matteo stands frozen.

Watching.

Silent.

His eyes stay locked on Callum — not with confusion or shock anymore.

But with something far more brutal.

Recognition.

Pain.

Awe.

Love.

He kneels slowly beside us, like approaching something sacred.

Callum glances at him — confused, hesitant.

He’s always known Matteo as the man who protected us.

But not as—

“Callum,” I whisper gently, brushing his curls. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He looks up at me, eyes huge and trusting. “What, Momma?”

My throat tightens.

My hand shakes as I reach for Matteo, who doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just watches.

“This man…” I begin softly. “This is Matteo. You know that.”

Callum nods.

“And…” My voice cracks. “He’s… he’s not just… someone helping us.”

Matteo’s breath catches.

Callum blinks. “…He’s not?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “He’s your dad, Callum.”

Silence — so sharp it hurts.

Callum turns slowly, eyes lifting to Matteo’s face.

“You’re… my dad?”

The innocence in the question shatters Matteo like glass.

His voice breaks as he whispers—

“Yes. I’m your dad.”

Callum studies him — a long, serious look that no eight-year-old should ever have.

Then he moves.

Not away.

Toward him.

He crawls into Matteo’s lap and presses his cheek against his chest — so naturally, like he always knew.

Matteo freezes.

His hands hover for a second.

Then he folds around Callum, pulling him in — gently, reverently, like he’s holding the entire world in his arms.

He buries his face in Callum’s hair.

And Matteo Costello — feared, cold, untouchable Matteo — shakes.

“Hi…” Callum whispers shyly against his chest. “Hi, Dad.”

Matteo lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before. A sob. Raw. Uncontrolled. Cracking him open.

He cups the back of Callum’s head with a trembling hand.

“Hi, buddy,” he breathes. “I’m… I’m so glad you’re here.”

I cover my mouth with my hand as tears spill down my cheeks.

Because despite the pain, despite the blood, despite everything broken between Matteo and me…

This moment is whole.

This moment is perfect.

This moment is everything we fought for, everything we lost, everything we’re trying to rebuild.

Camila steps back, wiping her own eyes. “I’ll… give you three a moment.”

She slips out quietly.

And then it’s just us.

My family.

The family I never thought I’d get.

Callum curls deeper into Matteo’s chest.

Matteo holds him like he’ll never let go.

And I sit back against the pillows, breathing through the pain, watching the two halves of my heart find each other for the first time.

After a long while, Callum’s voice breaks the silence.

“Are we going to be okay?”

Matteo looks at me.

I look at him.

And for once, our answers match perfectly.

“Yes,” we say at the same time.

Callum smiles — small, sleepy, content.

Within minutes, he drifts to sleep in Matteo’s arms, exhausted by fear and adrenaline.

Matteo carries him gently to my side of the bed and settles in beside us, one arm around me, one around our son.

He presses a kiss to my temple.

“We’re not running anymore,” he murmurs. “From each other. From the truth. From this.”

I close my eyes and lean into him.

“No,” I whisper. “We’re not.”

But even as warmth fills me…

I know it isn’t over.

Because somewhere out there — bleeding, furious, unhinged —

Petrov is watching. Waiting. Planning.

And he knows exactly how to destroy Matteo now.

Not by killing him.

By taking what matters most.

Us.