Outside, Dario’s waiting by the car, breathing hard and royally pissed off. “Bastard had too much of a head start. Lost him in the maze back there.”
I want to put my fist through something. Want to hunt down whoever did this and make them pay in ways that would give Satan nightmares. But Austin makes a soft whimpering sound against my chest, and revenge gets shoved to the back of my mind.
“Hospital,” I grit out, settling him in the backseat while Nina climbs in beside him. “We’ll deal with the rest later.”
It’s not until we’re moving, the overhead light casting everything in harsh relief, that I see the bruise blooming across Nina’s cheek. Dark purple and swollen, shaped like fingers.
Someone put their hands on her. Someone hurt her while my son watched.
The rage that floods my system is so pure, so white-hot, that for a second I can’t see straight. My knuckles go white on the steering wheel as I fight the urge to turn around and burn that house to the ground with whoever did this inside it.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask Nina, my voice carefully controlled. “Who took you?”
She hesitates, and something flickers across her face that I can’t read. Fear? Guilt? Her eyes dart away from mine before Austin’sbreathing turns raspy and her attention snaps back to him. His small hands clutch at his chest like he’s trying to hold his heart together through sheer will.
The conversation can wait. My son needs a doctor, and Nina needs to know they’re safe. Everything else—the hunt for whoever did this, the very creative ways I’m going to make them pay—that can wait until my family is whole again.
But the bastard who put his hands on them? He’s going to learn there are worse things than dying, and I’ve got all the time in the world to teach him.
37
NINA
Fifteen hours.
That’s how long I’ve been watching Austin fight for his life, and every minute feels like a small eternity. The hospital chairs weren’t designed for marathon vigils, but I’ve made myself at home in the pediatric wing anyway.
Alessio hasn’t left my side, which should be comforting, but right now he looks as helpless as I feel.
The medication that was supposed to buy us time has failed. I can see it in Dr. Murphy’s face before she even starts talking. She’s got that careful, practiced expression that doctors perfect for delivering bad news, and my stomach drops to my feet.
“We’re going to have to perform the surgery,” she says, settling into the chair across from us.
I flinch at the words, even though I knew they were coming. Alessio’s hand finds mine, his fingers surprisingly clammy for someone who usually radiates confidence.
“Are you certain there’s no other option?” I ask, keeping my voice level through sheer willpower.
“The valve needs immediate repair. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but waiting any longer puts Austin at greater risk.”
She walks us through the procedure with the kind of clinical thoroughness that should be reassuring but somehow makes everything feel more terrifying. Surgical techniques. Potential complications. Recovery timelines. Each detail presses down until it’s hard to breathe.
I sign the consent forms with fingers that barely shake, because falling apart isn’t an option. Not when Austin needs me to be the mother who believes everything will be okay.
Two hours later, I’m standing beside his hospital bed, trying to memorize his face.
He looks so small against the white sheets. All dark hair and a dimple that mirrors his father’s, watching me with the kind of trust that could break a person in half.
I try to memorize the curve of his cheek, the way his hair sticks up in the back no matter how much I smooth it down, the tiny freckle just below his left ear that only I know about.
What if something goes wrong? What if this is the last time I see those eyes looking at me with complete faith that I can fix anything?
“You’re going to take a little nap,” I tell him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “When you wake up, all the scary stuff will be over.”
“Will you be here?” His voice is barely a whisper.
“Every second.” I lean down and kiss his cheek, breathing in that sweet little boy smell that’s uniquely his. “Your dad and I aren’t going anywhere.”
I wish I had control over what happens in that operating room. I wish my presence in the waiting room could somehow protect him from the risks he’s about to face.
