The hallway stretches forever.
White walls. White tile. That antiseptic smell that makes my stomach turn because nothing good ever happens in places that smell like this.
I see them before they see me.
Pietro stands with his back against the wall, arms crossed, face carved from stone. Nora sits beside him, her hand on his arm, red hair pulled back in a messy knot. Lorenzo paces near the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapid Italian I can't understand. Sophia watches him with worried eyes, her fingers twisted together in her lap.
Vittoria sits alone, knees pulled to her chest in a plastic chair.
And Bruno.
Bruno is here. In his wheelchair at the end of the row, jaw tight, hands gripping the armrests like he might snap them off.
They're all here. Every single one of them.
He needs to be okay. He has to be okay. All these people need him.
My feet keep moving even though my legs feel like they might give out any second. The coffee machine at the end of the hall makes a grinding sound that sets my teeth on edge.
Vittoria's head snaps up.
"Kristen?"
She's on her feet before I can respond, running toward me, and then she crashes into my arms and she's sobbing against my shoulder. I hold her tight, my own eyes burning, my throat so thick I can barely breathe.
"You came," she whispers. "You actually came."
"Of course I came." My voice cracks. Stupid. Hold it together. "Has anything changed? How long has he been in surgery?"
Vittoria pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Two hours. They said—they said the bullet hit close to his heart. There was so much bleeding and they don't know?—"
Her voice breaks.
I grab her hands, squeeze hard. "He's strong. He's so strong, Vittoria."
She nods, but her chin wobbles.
I look past her to the others. Pietro's watching me with an unreadable expression. Nora gives me a small, tired smile. Lorenzo has stopped pacing, phone lowered to his side.
Don't collapse. Don't you dare collapse right now.
"Does anyone need coffee?" The words tumble out, automatic, because I need to do something with my hands. "Or water? Food? I can get?—"
"Kristen." Sophia appears beside me, her face gentle but firm. "I'll get coffee. You need to sit down."
"I'm fine. I can?—"
"Sit."
It's not a request.
My knees buckle before I make the conscious decision to move. Sophia guides me to a chair, and I sink into the hard plastic, my hands shaking in my lap. The trembling spreads up my arms, into my chest, until my whole body feels like it might vibrate apart.
He could die thinking I hate him.
The thought hits me like a punch to the sternum. I told him I hated him. I said those words to his face and then I left and now he's in surgery with a bullet near his heart and what if those are the last words?—
"Why the fuck did you leave?"
