HELENA'S POV
The world had gone silent around me. My ears rang with the deafening echo of the gunshot, but my mind refused to process it. I crumpled to the floor, the weight of dread pinning me down. I couldn't open my eyes. I didn't want to.
What if he was gone?
What if Dante had finally done it?
My heart pounded erratically, each beat clawing at my ribs as if it wanted to burst free. Somewhere in the haze, I expected Dante's taunting voice-his self-assured arrogance slicing through the tension like it always did. But there was nothing. Just an eerie, suffocating quiet.
My hands trembled as I forced my eyes open, and when I did, the sight before me turned my blood to ice.
Dante was sprawled on the ground, a crimson pool spreading beneath him, staining the earth like a macabre halo. His lifeless eyes stared at nothing, the usual malice in them extinguished. I blinked rapidly, trying to piece together what I was seeing.
"W-What…" My voice cracked as I struggled to comprehend.
Then I saw Paulo, standing over Dante's body, a gun in his hand. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, his eyes locked on the scene he'd created.
"I was so sick of his shit," Paulo said, his voice cold and sharp, laced with years of suppressed rage.
It hit me like a freight train. Paulo had done it. He had killed Dante.
"Matteo," I whispered, my voice barely audible, my eyes darting to where he lay.
He was slumped on the ground, bloodied and battered, but his chest still rose and fell, shallow but steady. Relief mixed with the panic surging through me, and I scrambled to his side.
"Matteo!" I cried, cradling his face in my hands. His skin was cold, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes fluttered weakly before focusing on me.
"It's me, it's Helena," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Stay with me, baby. You're okay. I promise, you're okay."
His lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes stayed on me, though, like I was the only anchor holding him to this world.
"Why?" I croaked, turning to Paulo, anger and confusion bubbling in my chest. "Why did you do it?"
Paulo lowered the gun, the weight of his actions visible in the slump of his shoulders. "I was sick of him," he said, his voice void of remorse. "Sick of him telling me what to do. Sick of him being a merciless bastard. It was one thing to kill the bastards who betrayed us, but Matteo? He didn't deserve this. None of us did."
Paulo's eyes flicked to Dante's lifeless body, his lip curling in disgust. "He was selfish, power-hungry, and ruthless. He didn't deserve to lead. It was going to be Matteo today, me tomorrow, and maybe you next, Helena. We're all better off without him."
I stared at Paulo, my mind a swirling storm of disbelief, anger, and an odd, reluctant understanding.
"We need to get him to a hospital," Paulo said, nodding toward Matteo.
I nodded automatically, my hands still cradling Matteo's face, now stained with his blood. My dress was ruined, the vibrant red fabric darkened with smears of blood, but I didn't care. The tears stung my eyes, hot and relentless, threatening to spill over.
Was this over? Was I free?
Dante was really gone.
Paulo barked orders, and a few of Dante's men-now Paulo's, I realized-rushed to lift Matteo carefully. I followed them blindly, my mind too numb to process the movements around me.
We reached the car, and as they carefully loaded Matteo into the back seat, Paulo turned to me. His expression was unreadable, a strange mix of resolve and weariness.
"It was Matteo today," he said, his voice low but firm, "but it could have been me tomorrow. And it could've been you next. Dante was a monster, Helena. It's better for everyone that he's dead."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. His words hung in the air, heavy with truth and finality.
I climbed into the car beside Matteo, taking his hand in mine and holding it tightly. His pulse was weak, but it was there, and that was all that mattered.
As the car sped away from the scene, I stared out the window at the darkness beyond, my mind replaying the events of the night over and over.
Dante was gone.
But the weight of what that meant loomed over me, cold and unrelenting.
Was this really freedom? Or had we just stepped into another hell?
It took a whole ass thirty minutes before we arrived at the hospital and Paulo and the rest of the men pulled Matteo out of the car, while I hopped helplessly behind them. Matteo was loaded unto a stretcher but I stayed stubbornly by his side, holding fiercely unto his arms while he was rolled to the theater.
"I love you Matteo" I cried "I love you so much, please live for me"
And just then, I felt it - a tiny squeeze of his hands.
I had hope