I shook him off, every muscle coiled, refusing to step away. My body moved on its own, past Trevor, past the weight of the room, straight toward the hallway where one doctor had just emerged from, pulling off his gloves.
I went to him without hesitation, my voice cutting through the sterile air. “Tell me about my brother.”
The surgeon looked at me like he already knew who I was before I even opened my mouth. His eyes flicked once to the veins straining at my temples, then back to his chart, his tone calm in that trained, professional way.
“Come with me,” he said. “We’ll talk in my office.”
The hallway swallowed us as he led the way – white walls, fluorescent hum, polished floors echoing our steps. I followed him in silence, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt, my hand brushing against the weight tucked at the back of my waistband.
The office door clicked shut behind us. The air smelled of antiseptic and coffee gone cold. He sat behind his desk, the faint shuffle of papers trying to put distance between us.
“We’re doing everything we can,” he began, his voice slow, careful. “But…”
That word –but– hit me harder than a bullet.
I moved before I could think, crossing the space, grabbing his collar in my fist and yanking him halfway over the desk. The chair scraped back against the floor, his glasses sliding crooked on his nose.
The steel of my gun pressedhardagainst his forehead, cold against his sweating skin. His breath caught, a tiny sound, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, wide.
“If my brother doesn’t make it, neither do you.” My voice was low, steady, each word sharpened to a blade. “Or your wife. Or your kids. Understand?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed against my grip. He tried to speak, but no sound came at first. I shoved the barrel harder into his skin, watching his composure crack.
“I swear to you,” I leaned close enough to feel his breath shake, “If he dies, yourentire fucking bloodlineends with him.”
Whether my fake threat had worked or not – I didn’t care.
The only thing I cared about in that moment was that my little brother was safe.
When he finally woke up, pale beneath the hospital lights but breathing, something inside me cracked open. Hours of rage and fear drained from me all at once, leaving only the weight of relief pressing me weak against the wall. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until that moment, when I saw his chest rise and fall, steady, alive.
Four bullets in the chesthe took to protecther.
In the quiet of his suite, I sat in one of the armchairs and watched him sleep, Maria in his arms awake too. The room was dim, machines humming softly, the city muted beyond the glass. His face looked younger in that silence, softer than the hardened man he’d shaped into; for a moment I could almost see the boy who used to cling to me on cliffside paths, barefoot and laughing.
All the blood, all the fire, all the years of darkness – we were still here. Still together. And for the first time in weeks, maybe years, I let myself close my eyes and simply be grateful.
Chapter 6
Present
Upper East Side, New York City
MARIA FUSSED OVER THE TEA tray in front of us, cheeks faintly flushed as though she’d already apologized three times.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, smoothing a linen napkin that didn’t need smoothing. “This isn’t nearly as… Polished as Silvia’s setup. Zach doesn’t have those bone teapots or the little plates with lace edges. He’s been resting, and – well…” She glanced toward the hallway, where the bedroom door was cracked just enough for the sound of his even breathing to drift out.
My mother reached across the table, taking Maria’s hand in hers. She wore cream silk today, elegant and effortless, the kind of grace that could hush a room without a single word. Everyone loved my mother. It was impossible not to.
“Maria,cara,” She said with that lilting warmth that always managed to soften hard edges, “This is perfect. He is alive. He is home. That is what matters.”
We’d shown up kind of uninvited, just to check on how they were doing.
Maria smiled, gratitude swimming behind her eyes. She pressed her fingers lightly against the rim of her teacup, as though grounding herself.
We sipped in silence for a moment – the delicate scent of chamomile curling upward, blending with the faint smoke of vanilla candles Maria had set on the window ledge. Outside, Manhattan pulsed with its restless heartbeat.
Then my mother’s gaze sharpened – kind, but curious, as she tilted her head slightly toward Maria.
