His gaze found me faster this time.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered.
My throat tightened.
“You enjoy being dramatic, don’t you?”
His eyelids lowered halfway.
“Apparently.”
It was the longest word he had managed yet.
Relief hit me so suddenly I laughed under my breath. It was a terrible laugh, half panic and half exhaustion.
“You scared me.”
His eyes stayed on my face.
“Sorry.”
I looked away before he could see too much.
“You should be. I’m fairly sure I lost five years off my life.”
“Bill me.”
A real smile touched his mouth this time.
Small.
Faint.
Gone almost immediately.
But real.
I sat back down, suddenly aware of the distance between us. Or rather, the lack of it. For months, I had leaned close to adjust his pillow, bathe his skin, change his dressings, speak into the silence around him. Now every familiar motion carried new meaning.
“You didn’t respond to Dr. Mercer today,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
“Couldn’t.”
“Or wouldn’t?”
He was quiet long enough that I thought he might refuse to answer.
Then he whispered, “Both.”
I set the book down on my lap.
“You need to tell me what’s going on.”
His eyes shifted to the door.
I followed his glance.
“They’re outside,” I said. “Same as always.”
“No.”
The word was faint but firm.
“No?”
“Not same.”
I waited.
Speaking cost him. I could see it in the fine tremor at his throat, the way his breathing changed after each word. Whatever else Vincent Romano had been, whatever he had done before he ended up in that bed, he was helpless now in a way that stripped power down to its bones.
And still, he was trying to protect himself.
“Who are you afraid of?” I asked.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought I had pushed too hard.
Then he said, “Brother.”
I went still.
“Your brother?”
His eyelids opened again.
“Marco.”
I knew the name. Everyone in the wing did. Marco Romano had visited every Sunday at exactly four in the afternoon, always dressed like he had walked out of a magazine spread. He brought fresh flowers once a week, spoke kindly to the staff, asked thoughtful questions, and placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder before leaving.
I had thought grief made him polished and careful.
Now I wondered if grief had nothing to do with it.
“Marco visits you,” I said. “He seems concerned.”
Vincent’s gaze sharpened.
Even weak, half-starved by months of stillness, his expression turned almost amused.
“Marco seems many things.”
The room felt suddenly smaller.
“Are you saying he was involved in the ambush?”
Vincent didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
A soft knock came at the door.
I jumped.
Vincent’s eyes closed instantly.
Dr. Mercer entered a second later, carrying a tablet. She looked from me to Vincent and back again.
“He was awake,” she said.
It was not a question.
I nodded.
She approached the bed slowly.
“Vincent,” she said. “It’s Dr. Mercer. Can you hear me?”
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then his eyes opened.
Dr. Mercer exhaled quietly.
“Well,” she whispered. “Hello.”
Vincent looked at her with weary suspicion.
“You’re safe with me,” she said.
His gaze moved to me.
I nodded once.
Only then did he look back at the doctor.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Dr. Mercer performed the gentlest neurological exam I had ever witnessed. She asked him to blink once for yes, twice for no when speech became too tiring. She checked his grip strength, eye tracking, memory, pain level.
He knew his name.
He knew he was in Chicago.
He knew the year after thinking for a long moment.
But when she asked him who the president was, he looked so deeply annoyed that I had to hide a smile behind my hand.
Dr. Mercer noticed and pretended not to.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked.
Vincent’s eyes went dark.
One blink.
Yes.
“Do you feel safe with the men outside this room?”
He stared at her.
No blink.
No movement.
The silence stretched.
Dr. Mercer lowered the tablet.
“That’s answer enough.”
Vincent looked exhausted by then. His skin had gone gray around the mouth, and sweat shone at his temples.
“You need rest,” I said.
His gaze returned to me.
“Story.”
“Vincent—”
“Please.”
Dr. Mercer’s face changed at that.
Not shock, exactly.
Recognition.
As if she understood something I was only beginning to feel.
“I’ll update the chart carefully,” she said. “Only essential language. No details about specific conversations.” She looked at me. “And no visitors without my approval until we assess his condition further.”
“You can do that?”
“For twenty-four hours, yes. After that, the hospital board may develop a sudden interest in policy.”
Meaning Marco Romano might develop a sudden interest in the hospital board.
After she left, I dimmed the lights again.
Vincent’s breathing had already begun to slow. Still, his eyes stayed open, fixed on me with stubborn intent.
“You need sleep,” I told him.
“Read.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I picked up the book.
This time, I read until he fell asleep.
Not unconscious.
Asleep.
There was a difference, and somehow that difference filled my chest with something dangerous and warm.
Over the next week, Vincent woke in pieces.
A few minutes at first. Then an hour. Then nearly an entire evening with short rests between conversations. His voice strengthened from a rasp to a low, rough murmur. Physical therapy began in secret under the excuse of passive mobility sessions. Dr. Mercer brought in only two specialists she trusted, both older, both discreet, both unimpressed by the men outside the door.
Vincent hated being weak.
He never said it directly, but I saw it in every controlled breath when his hand failed to close around a foam therapy ball. I saw it in the muscle that ticked in his jaw when he couldn’t lift his arm more than two inches. I saw it most clearly when he looked away from me before accepting help.
“You know,” I said one night while adjusting the pillows behind his shoulders, “most patients get frustrated during recovery.”
He stared at the wall.
“I’m not frustrated.”
“No?”
“I’m considering a strategic disagreement with my body.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
His eyes cut to mine.
“What?”
“That might be the most Vincent Romano way to describe physical therapy.”
His expression changed slightly.
“You say my name differently now.”
I busied myself with his blanket.
“How did I say it before?”
“Like I couldn’t hear you.”
My hands stilled.
He regretted the words immediately. I saw it in his face, in the way his gaze dropped.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No,” I said softly. “It’s true.”
For a moment, only the monitor spoke.
Then I sat in the chair beside his bed.
“What else did you hear?”
His eyes remained lowered.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the safest one.”
I studied him.
The scar near his temple had faded from angry red to a pale line, but it still changed his face somehow. It made him look less untouchable. Less like the whispered legend that had followed me into Room 412 on my first night.
“What do you remember?” I asked.
His fingers moved against the sheet.
“Dark,” he said. “Pain sometimes. Voices. Yours more than others.”
I swallowed.
He continued, slowly.
