When I finally break through to full consciousness, sunlight streams through half-closed blinds, creating bars of light across the private hospital room.
The bandages covering half my face have been reduced to a padded eye patch. The burns on my chest and arms have transformed from raw, weeping wounds to tight, shiny skin in mottled shades of pink and white.
Every muscle screams in protest as I sit up, but I manage. My body feels like a poorly reassembled puzzle—all the pieces technically there but not quite fitting together anymore.
Ha, Enzo would love that analogy.
The door opens, and Remus walks in, followed by Rafe. They stop short when they see me upright.
“Look who decided to rejoin the living,” Rafe says, his casual tone belied by the relief in his eyes.
Remus approaches the bed, his gaze clinical as he assesses my condition. “The doctor said you’d be out at least another day.”
“Doctors,” I rasp, my voice rusty from disuse, “don’t know shit about Russos.”
A ghost of a smile touches Remus’s lips. “Apparently not.”
I gesture toward the water pitcher. Rafe pours a cup and hands it to me. The simple movement sends pain lancing through my skin.
“How long?” I ask after sipping the water. It feels like heaven against my parched throat.
“Five weeks,” Remus answers. “You’ve been in and out. More out than in. Three surgeries for the eye socket, four for the burns. One to remove shrapnel from your abdomen.”
I process this information dispassionately, as if he’s talking about someone else. Five weeks of my life, gone. Burned away like so much else.
“Enzo’s almost here,” Rafe adds, settling into a chair beside the bed. “Should be here within the hour.”
I raise my eyebrow—the one I still have. “Am I dying and nobody told me? Why’s Enzo coming?”
Remus doesn’t smile at the joke. “He’s been here three times already. This makes four.”
That surprises me. Enzo doesn’t leave Washington unless absolutely necessary. His presence means this isn’t just about me—it’s about the family. About our collective response.
As if summoned by our conversation, the door opens again. Enzo enters, his tailored suit as impeccable as always. Behind him comes Piper, her expression a careful mask that doesn’t quite hide her concern.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo says by way of greeting. “You look like shit.”
I feel a laugh bubble up, surprising in its genuineness. “Should see the other guy. Oh wait, you can’t. We don’t know who blew me up.”
Piper winces slightly, but my cousin’s lips curve in appreciation of the dark humor. He moves to the window, subtly checking the view before turning back to the room.
“Now that we’re all here,” Remus says, “we should discuss what we know.”
He reaches into a leather portfolio and spreads photos across the foot of my bed. Surveillance stills, grainy but clear enough.
The docks. My car. A man I don’t recognize.
“This was taken twenty minutes before your meeting,” Remus explains, tapping one image. “He knew exactly where you’d be parked and which car was yours. He even knew when to set the charges.”
I study the photos with my remaining eye, memorizing faces, builds, the way they move. “The contact never planned to show.”
“The contact doesn’t exist,” Enzo interjects, his voice flat. “We’ve checked every angle. The number you were calling? Burner. The name? Ghost. The entire setup was manufactured to get you to that exact spot at that exact time.”
The implication settles over the room like smoke—thick, choking, impossible to ignore.
“Someone gave them your schedule,” Remus states, voicing what we’re all thinking. “Someone with access.”
The betrayal isn’t surprising. In our world, loyalty is currency, and currencies can be counterfeited. What’s surprising is that anyone thought they could do this and live.
