Gio never called during school hours. So when his name lit up my phone at 3:47 on a Tuesday, I knew before I answered.

I was grading papers. Third grade cursive worksheets, the letters wobbly and earnest, and I was writing "Beautiful S!" on Mia Torres's page when my phone vibrated across the desk.

Gio.

Not Dante. Gio never called me during school hours. Gio never called me at all unless Dante asked him to, and Dante knew my schedule down to the minute.

I picked up.

"There's been an incident."

In our world, incident means blood.

"Where."

"Lombardi's. The lunch meeting."

Lombardi's. The Italian place on Ninth where the waiters knew Dante's order and the owner kissed both his cheeks. The legitimate place. The safe place.

"How bad."

Gio paused. Gio never paused.

"He's in surgery. Sera, you should come."

I set down my pen. Picked up my bag. Walked to the principal's office and said I had a family emergency. She asked if everything was okay. I said yes. Which was a lie. But I'd gotten very good at those.

In the car, I called Elena.

"I know," she said. "Gio called me first. I'm picking up the kids."

"Elena..."

"He's alive. Focus on that. He's alive and he's in surgery and they're going to fix whatever needs fixing because he's Dante Caruso and the universe doesn't get to take him. Not like this."

She was crying. I could hear it underneath the fierceness. Elena cried with her whole body but kept talking through it, same as always.

"I'm on my way," I said.

"I'll have the kids by the time you get there. They won't know anything yet. Go."

I drove.

Hands steady. Mind blank. Body doing what it knew how to do because the rest of me had gone somewhere far away, somewhere padded and muffled where phone calls from Gio didn't mean what they meant.

The hospital was St. Marguerite's. Private wing. Third floor. I knew the route because Antonio had broken his arm on the playground last spring and Dante had commandeered the entire floor until the cast was set.

The nurse at the desk recognized me.

"Mrs. Caruso. He's still in surgery. I can take you to the waiting area."

"What happened to him."

"The surgeon will..."

"What happened."

She looked at her screen. "Gunshot wound. Upper back, left side. The bullet... they're assessing the spinal area."

Spine.

The word sat in my chest like a stone.

I let her take me to the waiting room. Private. Leather chairs, dim lighting, a water dispenser I didn't touch. I sat down. Stood up. Sat down again.

My phone was ringing. Not Gio this time. Numbers I half-recognized. Captains. Associates. People who worked for Dante and needed to know what was happening because what happened to him happened to all of them.

I turned the phone face down.

Then picked it up. Because someone had to answer. Because the empire didn't stop running because its king was on a table with a bullet near his spine.

"This is Sera Caruso."

"Mrs. Caruso, this is Franco. We heard about the boss. Is he..."

"He's in surgery. That's all I know."

"What do we do about the Moretti contract? It's due tomorrow and..."

"I'll call you back."

I hung up. The phone buzzed again. Different number.

"Mrs. Caruso, it's Luca. I was at the restaurant. I saw..."

"Tell me."

"He was sitting with Chen, the developer. Two courses in. Gunman came through the kitchen entrance. One shot. Then gone. Professional. In and out in under ten seconds."

Professional. Not a street fight. Not a rival sending a message. Hired work, through the kitchen of a legitimate restaurant during a business lunch.

"Did anyone see the shooter?"

"Kitchen staff gave descriptions. I have the security footage queued. But Sera... this was planned. The timing, the entrance, the exit route. Someone knew he'd be there."

"Someone always knows where he is."

"Not like this. The reservation was made three days ago. Under his name."

I closed my eyes.

Three days. Someone had watched. Waited. Chosen the moment.

"Keep the footage. Don't talk to anyone else. I'll call you when I know more."

I sat in that waiting room for over four hours. Elena texted photos of the kids eating dinner. Isabella making Antonio laugh with spaghetti on her nose. Normal. Beautiful. The life we'd built from wreckage and stubbornness and love that had no business surviving what it survived.

The surgeon came at 8:12 PM.

"Mrs. Caruso."

I stood.

"He's stable. The bullet lodged near the T7 vertebra. We removed it successfully. There's swelling around the spinal cord, which is causing temporary paralysis in his lower extremities."

"Temporary."

"We believe so. The cord itself isn't severed. But the swelling needs to resolve before we can assess full function. It could be days. It could be weeks."

"When can I see him?"

"He's sedated. He won't know you're there."

"When can I see him."

She led me to his room.

Dante lay in a hospital bed with tubes in his arms and monitors tracking his pulse in green blips.

Smaller.

He looked smaller.

I pulled the chair to his bed. Took his hand. It was warm. Limp, but warm.

"I'm here," I said.

The monitors beeped.

"The kids are fine. Elena has them. Isabella did the spaghetti nose thing and Antonio ate three bread rolls, which is a new record."

Beep. Beep.

"I'm staying."

His hand didn't move. His face didn't change. Machines breathed for him.

My phone buzzed. Four missed calls. Eight texts. The empire, needing its answer.

I turned it off.

Then turned it back on.

Because someone had to answer.

And Dante couldn't.