And Atlas.
The names didn’t belong together like that.Not like this.Not on cold marble, surrounded by blood.
A curse dragged out of me, thick and broken, scraping my throat raw as it forced its way up.
“Jesus Christ…”
I went to Alessio first because he was closest, because some stupid part of me still believed proximity might meant survival.I dropped to my knees and pressed two fingers to his neck.
There was no pulse.
His skin was already cooling beneath my touch.Cooling like the world had decided he didn’t belong in it anymore.
The little shit.The mouthiest bastard in our whole family.The one who never took anything seriously, who laughed too loud, who lived like tomorrow was guaranteed.
Gone.
The word hit me like a grenade, the finality of it choking me.
Grief pounded into me so hard my vision blurred.I had to catch myself on the floor to keep from tipping over.My eyes burned, my chest tightening until it hurt to breathe.
“Fuck,” I whispered, leaning down.“You absolute idiot.You deserved better than this.”
I heard a sound that didn’t belong to the dead.It was a wet, broken drag of air.
Atlas.
I spun around.
He was barely conscious, blood spreading beneath him, his breathing ragged and shallow like he was drowning on dry land.Bullet holes tore through his torso, his shoulder, his side—more wounds than a man should have been able to carry and still be alive.
“Atlas!”I dropped to my knees beside him.“Hey—stay with me, cuz.”
His eyelids fluttered.His mouth moved, but nothing came out.Just a torn, painful exhale.
“Don’t talk.Don’t fucking talk,” I snapped, already pulling my phone out, my hands shaking as I dialed.“I’ve got you.”
As the call rang, Atlas’s hand twitched.Weak.Trembling.
He wasn’t reaching for me.
He was reaching for Alessio.
His fingers scraped against the marble, dragging toward his brother’s arm, stopping just inches short.His face folded in on itself—not from pain, but from something far worse.
Loss.
I caught his hand and pressed it to Alessio’s shoulder so he didn’t have to keep reaching.His fingers curled weakly into that blood-soaked shirt like he was afraid to let go.
And then he went still.
The line clicked.
“This is Gianni,” I barked into the phone.“We need medical extraction to Atlas’s penthouse.Multiple gunshot wounds.One DOA.One critical.”
My voice broke on the last word.I closed my eyes for a second.Just one.
Because Alessio—that loud, reckless kid—was lying dead at my feet.