Page 90 of From Italy With Love

I stood, my legs somehow supporting my weight even though I felt like I was made of paper. Like I might fold in on myself at any moment.

“Madigan—”

“Don’t.” She held up a hand, backing away from me like I was something dangerous. Like the words I was about to say might kill her. “Don’t say it, Sinclair. Please don’t say it.”

But I had to. Because someone had to tell her. Someone had to be the one to destroy what was left of her world. And it might as well be me. Might as well be the man who failed to keep his promise.

“I’m so sorry.” My voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. “Salvatore is gone.”

The sound she made wasn’t human. It was something primal and broken, torn from somewhere deep inside her chest. She doubled over like she had been shot, her arms wrapping around her middle, and I moved without thinking.

I crossed the room and caught her before she hit the floor. She was so light. Too light. Like she hadn’t been eating, hadn’t been taking care of herself. Her body shook against mine, violent tremors that wracked her from head to toe, and I held her tighter, trying to keep her together even though I knew it was useless.

Nothing could keep her together now.

Nothing could fix this.

“No, no, no, no,” she whispered over and over, the word becoming a mantra, a prayer, a desperate denial of reality. “He can’t be. He can’t be gone. We were supposed to—we were going to⁠—”

“I know.” I lowered us both to the floor because I couldn’t hold her up anymore. Couldn’t stand while she fell apart in my arms. “I know, Madigan. I’m so sorry.”

She sobbed into my chest, her fingers clutching at my shirt like she was drowning and I was the only thing keeping her afloat. Her whole body convulsed with each breath, each cry, each broken sound that tore its way out of her throat.

And I held her.

Held her while she broke.

Held her while the reality of what I’d told her sank in.

Held her while she realized that the man she loved, the father of her child, the person she’d built her entire world around, was never coming back. Over her head, I saw Rowen standing in the doorway. His face was pale, his jaw tight. He had seen death before. We both had. But this—watching someone’s soul shatter in real time—this was different.

This was worse. Because we knew Salvatore. Respected him. Watched him fight against impossible odds to protect the people he loved. Watched him sacrifice everything—his family, his position, his safety—for a chance at something real.

And it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough in this world.

The good ones always died. The ones who tried to do right, who fought against the darkness, who believed that love could conquer the violence and corruption that ran through everything like poison—they were always the ones who paid the price.

Madigan’s sobs were quieter now, but somehow that was worse. The silence between each breath was suffocating, filled with a grief so profound it had its own weight.

Its own gravity.

We sat there on the floor of my study, surrounded by documents that promised justice and revenge and the end of the organization that killed him. Evidence that came too late. Information that might have saved him if I had just moved faster. If I had just been smarter. If I had just done more.

The guilt was a living thing inside my chest, clawing at my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

I should have protected him better. Should have anticipated Petrovitch’s move. Should have had more security, better protocols, faster response times.

Should have, should have, should have.

The words echoed in my head like a death knell.

I’d spent my entire adult life building networks, gathering intelligence, and positioning myself as someone who could make a difference in this world. Someone who could protect the people who needed protecting. Someone who could stand between the monsters and the innocent.

And I’d failed.

I’d failed Salvatore.