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People like me don’t get happy endings.

I feel the pen stab into the side of my neck.

No.

No no no fucking NO.

The needle leaves my skin. The pen tumbles down my neck and clatters on the cement beneath me.

At first, there’s nothing. Then slowly, I start to feel electric impulses flickering through my nervous system. My pulse stutters, like an engine struggling to turn over.

My eyelids flutter. My nostrils twitch. My lips part instinctively and cool air flows down my tight throat as it slowly loosens.

My lungs begin to fill.

I feel fingers find mine on the ground. There’s a soft squeeze, as if encouraging the thaw to spread though my body. Then the hand goes still.

My eyelids flutter again and I slowly force them open as the iceberg inside me finally breaks apart.

The world comes roaring back, bringing the pain with it.

The meat hook embedded in my shoulder feels like someone’s driven a red-hot railroad spike clean through the joint. Every little shift of my body scrapes the metal against torn muscle and bone in a symphony of agony.

It barely registers.

Because Damiano isn’t moving.

His fingers are still entwined with mine, but there’s no strength in them. No pressure. No answering squeeze. His face is gray, and his eyelids aren't moving.

His chest isn’t moving.

A broken, shattered sound tears out of me, uglier and rawer than any scream.

“Dame…”

My voice is little more than a croak.

I wrench my hand out from under his and try to move, but my body is still trying to wake up. My arms have no strength. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. I start to drag myself toward him on my elbows, biting down another scream when the hook in my shoulder wrenches at my flesh.

I don’t. Fucking. Care.

With a choked cry of pain, I collapse beside him and twist my face, lowering my ear to his lips.

My pulse runs cold when I feel and see nothing.

No whisper of breath on his lips. No rise and fall of his chest.

Another tortured sound wrenches out of me as I clamp my trembling hand over his nose, tip his head back, and cover his mouth with mine.

I force the air from my lungs into his. I do it again, fighting the toxin still coursing through my veins and weakening me.

Dame’s chest barely moves.

Fear plunges into my heart as I try again, pressing my mouth to his and blowing with every ounce of strength I have.

It’s not working.

He’s too big.