“A girl who speaks six languages and negotiated our way out of a war with the Russians. A girl who spotted that ambush before any of us did.”
True. But that doesn’t change the fundamental reality that Kasimira didn’t choose this life. I forced her into it through Dante’s will and my own selfish need to protect her. Now she’s lying in a hospital bed because she tried to protect me.
“Mr. Moretti?” Dr. Patterson appears in the doorway, still wearing scrubs. “Your wife is awake. She’s asking for you.”
I follow him down the hallway to her room, my heart hammering against my ribs. She’s propped up in bed, her shoulder heavily bandaged, IV lines snaking from her arms. But her eyes are clear and focused.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.” I take the chair beside her bed, not trusting myself to stand. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot.” She attempts a smile. “Dr. Patterson says I’ll be fine.”
“Good.”
“Alaric.” Her voice is gentle. “You look terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Your hands are shaking.”
I glance down, and she’s right. Even now, sitting beside her bed, knowing she’s safe, my hands won’t steady.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” I admit.
“But you didn’t.”
“This time. What about next time? What happens when there’s another ambush, another threat, another situation where you think throwing yourself in harm’s way is the answer?”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face. “Are you angry with me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m angry that you were hurt. I’m angry that you were in danger because of the choices I made. I’m angry that you think your life is worth less than mine.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because…” She struggles with the words. “Because the thought of losing you was worse than the thought of getting hurt.”
The honesty in her voice breaks something open in my chest. She’s not trained in tactical thinking or threat assessment. She doesn’t understand concepts like acceptable losses or strategic priorities. She just knew she couldn’t watch me die.
“You can’t think like that in this world,” I tell her. “You can’t make emotional decisions when bullets are flying.”
“I didn’t make an emotional decision. I made a human one.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Is it? Or is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night after making horrible choices?”
The question cuts deeper than she probably intended. How many times have I justified brutal decisions by calling themstrategic? How many people have died because I chose logic over humanity?
“Emotion gets you killed,” I say.
“So does being completely cold. Look what happened to Dante.”
She’s right, and we both know it. My son lived without empathy or conscience, treating people like chess pieces. It made him effective in the short term and dead in the long term.
“This world doesn’t reward kindness, Kasimira.”
