Both women looked up. Shannon smiled softly.
Miriam stood. “You’re awake.” Her voice was steady.
He watched them both, heart aching with something too large to name. Miriam pressed up from her seat and moved to his bedside.
He tried to push up, and Shannon moved to steady him. “I didn’t know you were in New York,” he managed.
“I landed early this morning. Hunt, Ian and Martin finally gave me the go ahead to come. I spoke with Ian every day you were in the hospital overseas. They were worried for your security and mine,” Miriam said. “Jamie briefed me the second I arrived. You were already out cold when I got here.”
He looked at Shannon, then back at his mother. A strange feeling settled in his chest—not panic, not pain. Just… quiet. “You two were just… sitting there?”
“Watching you breathe,” Shannon said.
Miriam smiled faintly. “You can’t scare us off that easily.”
He let his head fall back against the pillow. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling. Then his voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “I’m tired. I need some help to do this. Mama, Shannon is doing this alone.”
Miriam’s hand found his. Shannon reached for the other.
“She’s not alone now,” Miriam said softly.
Dante closed his eyes. And this time, when the tears came—slow, unforced—he didn’t hide them.
FIFTY-ONE
REHAB WING
Nick Vargas didn’t raise his voice. “Feet flat. Hands on the rail. Don’t look down.”
Dante sat at the edge of the bed, muscles trembling—not from pain but from relearning. The dialysis line tugged faintly at his wrist. The abdominal site pulled when he shifted.
Rafi stood close, one hand hovering near Dante’s back without touching. Dante pushed to standing. Everything went white at the edges.
Nick nodded. “Good. That’s it.”
“I can do more,” Dante said through clenched teeth.
“I know,” Nick replied. “That’s why you won’t.”
They walked him three steps. Then sat him back down.
Rafi crouched in front of him. “You didn’t collapse. That’s the win.”
Dante leaned forward, breath shaking. Shannon exhaled for the first time that morning.
PSYCH CONSULTATION SUITE
Dante sat in a reclining medical chair rather than on a couch. His IV pole stood quietly behind him. Nasal oxygen rested in place, a catheter dressing hidden beneath a loose navy-blue scrub shirt.
Dr. Eliza Shen sat opposite him, legs crossed, a notepad resting on her thigh, though she hadn’t written anything yet. The room was warm. Wood floors and no overhead lighting. A window looked out toward the East River. There were no security cameras and no guards visible.
But Dante knew how many steps it would take to reach the door and where each direction in the hall would take him. It wasn’t paranoia. It was conditioning.
Dr. Shen waited. She let silence do what silence was designed to do.
Dante broke it first. “You don’t seem like someone who needs to be convinced I’m not crazy.”
“No,” Shen said calmly. “Because you’re not.”
