He cups my face gently. "This wasn't your fault, tesoro."
"Wasn't it?" I pull away. "If I hadn't run to her apartment that day?—"
"Daniil would have found another way." His jaw tightens. "He was hunting you. Marina just got caught in the crossfire."
Crossfire. Such a clean word for what happened. For Marina taking a bullet meant for me, for the way her hand now hangs useless at her side.
"I'll wait here," Lorenzo says, leaning against the car. Two of his men stand at the building entrance, ensuring no surprises this time.
I make myself walk forward. The lobby still smells like industrial cleaner and old carpet.
I reach her door and knock softly.
"It's open," Marina calls.
She's sitting on her couch, surrounded by half-packed boxes. Her right hand rests in her lap, fingers curled and still. She's learning to do everything left-handed now.
"Hey," she says. No warmth, no anger. Just exhaustion.
"Hey." I hover in the doorway. "Need help?"
"My mom's been packing." She indicates the boxes. "Just need to grab a few more things from the bedroom."
The bedroom where Daniil tried to— I push the thought away.
"Marina, I'm so sorry?—"
"Don't." She cuts me off, not harsh, just tired. "We've done this already, Soph. Multiple times."
"But your hand?—"
"Might get better. Might not." She shrugs with her left shoulder only. "Physical therapy three times a week. Occupational therapy twice. My parents' insurance covers most of it."
She stands, moving past me toward the bedroom. I follow, watching her awkwardly gather clothes one-handed from her dresser.
"Let me," I say, reaching for a sweater.
"I can do it."
"I know you can. But let me help."
She stops, shoulders sagging. "You want to know the worst part? It's not the hand. It's that every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every unexpected sound makes me jump. My parents' neighbor slammed a door yesterday and I hid in the bathroom for an hour."
My chest aches. "The therapy will help with that too. PTSD is?—"
"I know what it is." She turns to face me. "I've been reading about it. Trauma responses. Hypervigilance. All the fun stuff you probably know all about now."
"Marina—"
"I'm not mad at you, Sophia." She sits heavily on the bed. "I'm just... tired. I need to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere normal. Where men don't break down doors and people don't get shot in their own kitchens."
"Your parents' house is good," I manage. "Safe."
"Yeah." She looks at her useless hand. "The doctors say if the nerves regenerate, I could get seventy percent function back. Maybe eighty if I'm lucky."
"You'll get it back." I sit beside her carefully. "You're the strongest person I know."
"No," she says quietly. "That's you now."
