Accardi (Genevieve and Matteo) by Allison Franklin novel Chapter 147

**You Were My Favorite Hurt, And My Hardest Goodbye by Ava Knight**

**Chapter 147**

Dom let out a dry, cracked laugh, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the weight of the world. “I haven’t exactly had the luxury of time for a shower, Lo,” he replied, his voice a mix of humor and exhaustion.

Lola’s eyes fluttered shut, her voice barely a whisper as it drifted into the air. “None of you have. The room smells like a wolf den. Fix it before I wake up again,” she murmured, a hint of teasing in her tone, even in her drowsiness.

As her breathing settled into a steady rhythm, her hand fell limp against the crumpled sheets, a picture of vulnerability. Dom remained seated in the dim light, feeling like a puzzle that had been shattered and hastily reassembled, each piece still jagged and out of place. He rubbed a hand down his face, the roughness of stubble grazing his palm, before leaning back in the creaking chair. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not yet. Not while she was just a few feet away, her life hanging in the balance.

But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the oppressive weight on his chest lifted, if only slightly. It was a small relief, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.

**Gino**

The machines around him hummed a soft lullaby, each beep and low whoosh a gentle reminder of life in the dim confines of the hospital room. It felt as if too much life was crammed into this too-small space, each breath a testament to survival.

Enzo lay unconscious, finally at peace in his slumber. Nico looked as pale as a ghost, tethered to IV fluids as if his very blood had been siphoned away. And then there was Lola, stitched together like some goddamn patchwork doll, a haunting testament to the violence they had all endured. Dom slumped in the recliner, his mouth slightly ajar, exhaustion pulling him under after hours spent fighting the urge to close his eyes.

And Gino—always awake. Always alert when the silence wrapped around them like a thick fog.

He leaned back in his own chair, one ankle propped over his knee, attempting to find comfort on the unforgiving vinyl. His eyes roamed the room in restless loops, counting every IV line, every flicker of green on the monitors, each rise and fall of the three chests laid out like casualties of a war that felt far too personal.

And then there was Lola—goddamn Lola. That tiny tornado of a woman had survived a blast that should have turned her to ash, had endured being dragged through hell only to be cast into the hands of the Russians. She had weathered two days of silence, and when finally given the chance, she had picked up a phone, her body broken, yet still managed to get Enzo’s name out.

Gino huffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Nobody walks out of that kind of hell. Nobody but you,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with a reluctant wonder that he couldn’t quite suppress.

The room was saturated with the sterile scent of antiseptic and metal, a faintly sour undertone lingering in the recycled air. Gino shifted in his chair, reaching into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the thick envelope that lived there. The one that bought silence, kept cameras away, ensured that no one asked too many questions about why a don and his crew were holed up like squatters in a hospital ward. He hadn’t needed to flash it yet, not since the first nurse had come through, but it was there, a constant reminder of the world outside this room.

He blew out a breath, stretching his stiff joints, the familiar pops echoing in the stillness.

What the hell were they doing? Vegas was still a powder keg, Enzo had ignited a war with the Russians, dismantling them brick by brick when the call had come that Lola was alive. There were still bodies to bury, warehouses to torch, debts to settle. But in this moment, amidst the chaos of their lives, none of it mattered.