No new orders.
No note about Matteo.
No sign that anything had changed.
Except the air.
The air felt wrong.
I moved to Vincent’s bedside and touched his shoulder lightly.
His eyes opened at once.
“Claire.”
“Matteo’s gone.”
His face hardened.
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Someone new is outside.”
He tried to sit up.
I put a hand against his chest.
“No.”
“Claire—”
“No. You fall, I lose my license and my mind.”
He stopped, breathing hard from the small effort.
I leaned closer and lowered my voice.
“I delivered it.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“To Adrian?”
“Yes.”
For the first time since he woke, Vincent looked almost relieved.
Almost.
Then he glanced toward the door.
“You need to leave.”
“I just got here.”
“Leave the hospital. Tonight.”
A chill moved through me.
“Why?”
Before he could answer, the door opened.
Marco Romano stepped inside.
He wore no coat this time. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, and his expression was calm in a way that made every nerve in my body wake up.
The unfamiliar guard stood behind him.
“Good evening,” Marco said.
I straightened.
“Visitation is still restricted.”
“I know.” He looked past me at the bed. “But restrictions have a way of changing when the right people discuss them.”
Vincent’s eyes were closed.
His face slack.
His body still.
Marco approached slowly, stopping at the foot of the bed.
“My brother always did love an audience,” he said softly. “Even when sleeping.”
I said nothing.
Marco looked at me.
“How has he been?”
“Stable.”
“That word again.”
“It remains accurate.”
His gaze lingered on my face.
“You’re very loyal for someone paid by the hour.”
“I’m professional.”
“Of course.”
He walked to the window and looked out at the city.
For a moment, he seemed almost sad.
“You know, when we were boys, Vincent used to read to me. Our mother was ill often. Father was absent often. Vincent filled silence before he learned what silence was worth.”
My eyes flicked toward the bed despite myself.
Vincent did not move.
Marco noticed.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“He had a good voice then. Gentle. People forget that about him.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Marco turned from the window.
“Did he ever tell you about the night our mother died?”
“No.”
“No, I imagine not.” He smoothed one cuff. “Vincent is selective with tenderness. It makes people feel chosen.”
Something in his tone pricked at me.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Old hurt, carefully polished until it shone like something else.
“Mr. Romano, your brother needs rest.”
“My brother needs many things.”
Marco walked to the bedside.
I stepped in front of him before thinking.
His eyes dropped to my shoes, then rose slowly.
The silence that followed was delicate and dangerous.
Finally, he smiled.
“You’ve grown attached.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
“Not untrue.”
The monitor beeped steadily.
I forced myself not to look at Vincent.
Marco leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering.
“Claire, may I call you Claire?”
“No.”
He smiled wider.
“Nurse Bennett, then. My brother has always been very good at turning strangers into soldiers. He makes them believe they are protecting the wounded man, not serving the dangerous one.”
