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.

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