"Later," I answer. "Right now, we guard what we came to keep."
He nods. I catch his sleeve and tug once, a small border collie nudge to keep him from running through walls. He turns his hand, laces our fingers, and squeezes back.
Nico sleeps. The monitor learns a calmer song. In the glass, I catch a glimpse of us, Steph looking more worn and haggard than any time since I met him, and me with fresh stitches and a new shiner—a pair of sinners sitting vigil like saints. I lean my shoulder into his again, and he lets his weight rest there, just a little.
"To get my attention, huh?" he whispers without looking away from his brother.
"To get your attention," I say, because I don’t know how to sayI’m not leavingwithout admitting it to myself first.
In the bed, Nico’s mouth shapes something around a dream. It looks like a smile. The morning inches forward. We sit. We breathe. We stay on the right side of living. For now.
The next morning…
The hospital givesout a mechanical hum of people trying to hold life together. I sit in a private waiting room that used to be someone’s office, beige and anonymous, and the silence tastes wrong. Nico is two doors down, sleeping off a chemical sedation under wires and tubes. The doctors kept him under through the night, saying it was safer that way. He’s supposed to wake up sometime this morning.
Oksana sits beside me, emanating a reassuring calm. She has a new bandage at her side and rubs her thumb over my knuckles when I clench them, like she’s smoothing wire, and it helps in a small, ridiculous way. Her presence is a balm I didn’t plan to need. It makes me soft where I thought I’d gone hard for good.
My father called earlier—too many times—and tried to come to the hospital again. I had men posted at the door to stop him, but technically, they'rehis. It never hit me like this before. They'rehis. We were always a team. He was the boss; I was the heir in waiting. Now I'm not so sure what I am anymore.
And neither are the men. It's in their looks, their discomfort when they greet me. If we don't want the house Conti to fall apart, we need to figure this out. Now. Today.
I have no idea why Nico acted the way he did when he saw our father, but the possibilities enrage me to no end. No scenario that goes through my head comes with a happy ending. Nico wasn't scared of our father; he was pissed. The kind of anger you reserve for the greatest treacheries.
Detached, I watch movement outside the window. An emergency helicopter lands. Doors open, men and women in scrubs pour out, their hair tossed this way and that by the wind from the rotors.
My phone buzzes. It's one of the guards. He is here. I tell the guard to let him in. My father looks older when he enters, wearier.
"I asked you not to come here." I greet him.
"My son—" His voice curls, thin and raw. "I want to see my son." Something about the way he sayssonrubs me the wrong way.
"For some reason, it agitated him yesterday to see you. He needs some time," I offer. "He's going to wake up this morning, and I will talk to him. Can't you wait that long?"
He spots Oksana and freezes. She stands and nods at him.
"What the hell is she doing here?" The thunder I'm used to is back in his voice and posture.
"She's my wife," I introduce.
"Your—" Dad starts, his voice brittle. "Your what now?"
"Oksana Arsenyev," she says, slow and proper. Then, because she likes theater as much as she likes knives, "Also called Metelitsa."
He blinks at the name like he’s trying to remember whether it belongs to a saint or a blade.
"You’re running with the Russians now?" Hard, accusing eyes land on me.
"She saved Nico," I tell him simply.
He looks at her like I brought a spy into our midst. The way his expression changes would have been comical, had it not been for the fact that there is something eerie to it. Something that gets under my skin as if a ghost had run its ice-cold fingers down my back. First, it's incredulous, then he looks like he's about to break out into laughter at a joke only he's privy to, then he seems to gethimself back under control, and I see him again as my father. The way he is when he puts on a performance of a lifetime. "Thank you," he holds out his hand to her, "for saving him."
I've never seen him look anything like this, sweat beading on his upper lip, his eyes not quite focusing. He moves like a man who’s been carrying a weight and has finally put it down. Oksana looks at his hand. Sighs, making it clear she only accepts the outstretched hand because of me. Their exchange has to be the quickest handshake in history.
"I just—" My father turns back to me. "I just wanted to see my son. I don’t know what happened. If my presence—if it triggered—then perhaps it’s better I keep my distance for now."
"That would be good. It has to be a misunderstanding, I'll talk to him," I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or me. Numbers jump in front of my eyes.
GUSTAVE.CONTI → AURELIO.VALVERDE
