Vito's POV
The IV drip fell in steady rhythms, each drop echoing in the silence of the medical suite I'd hastily arranged in the east wing of my estate. Dr. Reeves worked with quiet efficiency, checking Maria's vitals and adjusting the flow of fluids that would help flush the toxins from her ravaged system.
I sat beside the hospital bed, my wheelchair positioned close enough that I could reach her if needed. Her hand lay in mine—so thin I could feel every delicate bone beneath the translucent skin, so different from the strong grip of the eight-year-old girl who had pulled me to safety all those years ago.
But it was her. It had to be her.
Maria's fingers tightened around mine with surprising strength, just as they had in those dark tunnels beneath Little Italy. The same desperate grip
