Lorenzo woke to the sharp ache in his ribs. The bandage around his chest pulled when he shifted, a reminder of the bullets that had come too close. The room smelled faintly of medicine and smoke, sunlight slipping in through the heavy curtains.

For a moment, he let himself breathe. He was alive. That alone felt like a miracle. But then, just as quickly, a face broke through his fog, dark eyes, steady hands, a body shielding him from the hail of gunfire.

Mateo.

The name pressed against his chest ...