The night air sliced through me like a blade, cold and sharp, carrying the metallic tang of gunpowder and betrayal. The echoes of shouting had faded into a tense, unnatural silence, leaving only the low hum of the city far below us. My hands still trembled as I pressed them against Dante’s chest, feeling the thunderous rhythm of his heart beneath his shirt. He was alive. Barely, but alive.

“Don’t—move,” I whispered, even though I knew it was useless advice for a man like him. Dante Moretti didn’t take orders, not even from death.

His eyes cracked open—storm-gray and burning even through the pain. “You should have left when I...