William was discharged under heavy protest from the nurses, but no one said no to the Millefiore Don — not when his right hand wanted out of the hospital and back under his own roof. Within hours, the estate was quietly humming with activity again, staff scrambling to prepare his wing, security doubling at every gate.
But Mary didn’t let anyone near him.
Not Felicity. Not the private nurse. Not even the Don’s appointed doctor.
She shut the doors herself and stayed with William.
When he protested, she ignored him. When he winced, she steadied him. When the fever hit on the second night, she was already there, dabbing a cold cloth to his brow, changing the soaked sheets with hands that didn’t tremble anymore.
She changed every bandage herself.
And in doing so, saw every scar.
They crossed his body like a battlefield — old, faded wounds beside fresh ones, some small and precise, others jagged, brutal. Each one a story. A memory. A cost.
He told her all of them.
“This one,” he said, pointing to the gnarled line across his ribs, “is from a bad bet in Warsaw. I was sixteen. Thought I was invincible. Turns out, the Polish don’s nephew didn’t like losing.”
Mary traced the edge of a long scar on his shoulder. “And this?”
“A rival clan sent a gift-wrapped bomb to the wrong address. My address.”
She swallowed. “And now?”
He looked at her — bruised, pale, but alive. “Now I’ve got a new one. This one’s from protecting my wife.”
Her throat closed.
Because it was true.
She sat beside him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and for the first time in days, there was silence without fear. She looked down at his bandaged chest, at the blood that had dried beneath her fingernails.
Without him, she probably wouldn’t be alive.
They lay there in the late afternoon light, the air thick with things left unsaid, and slowly the conversation shifted — past pain, past power — into the messy, buried places neither of them ever let anyone near.
Mary told him about her mother. About how everything in Ben’s life had unraveled the day she was killed in a drive-by that wasn’t meant for her. A stray bullet from a fight that had nothing to do with them. “He changed after that,” she said. “Became cold. Shut everything down. Maybe... maybe that’s why he shielded me so much. He thought if I stayed soft, I’d stay alive.”
Will didn’t interrupt. But the silence shifted — darker, heavier.
He turned his head toward her, eyes sharp but slow.
“My father,” he said, “was a good man. For too long. Trusted people. Gave out too many loans. Took chances on men who didn’t deserve them.”
She looked at him carefully.
“Ben was one of them,” Will said flatly. “He targeted my father for years. Pushed him deeper into debt, stole from him, undermined his name in front of the other clans. When he couldn’t pay back what Ben demanded, they stripped him of everything. Status. Dignity. Pride. I came home and found a rope.”
Mary’s mouth parted.
“You’re lying,” she whispered. “My dad would never—he would never do something like that. It’s monstrous.”
William laughed.
Not loud. But low and dry. Bitter.
“I told you, Mary,” he said. “None of us are clean. Not your father. Not mine. Not me. Every man in this world does terrible things to survive. You want saints? Join a convent.”
She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyes.
“I thought casinos were the safe business,” she said, voice cracking. “Not like the rest. Not like drugs or girls or guns.”
“You thought wrong,” Will replied. “A bet is just a weapon with a smile. And your father used it better than anyone.”
Mary stood suddenly. Her hands trembled.
“No. I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t want to,” he said. “That’s different.”
But she couldn’t hear any more.
She turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her like a final verdict.
And then she ran.