I didn’t miss it. The shift beneath the surface, the subtle evaluation. “Do you always take this much interest in the wellbeing of all your patients?”
“I do, Mr. Rossi.”
I studied his blank expression a moment longer, seeing nothing but honesty. “She stays with me. Under my protection. Where I can control who breathes near her.”
“And the child?” His eyes flicked briefly toward her abdomen before returning to my face.
“No one touches what’s mine. Not her. Not my blood.”
“Protection can mean many things.”
“It means no one gets close enough to try again.”
There was a subtle change in his expression. More assessment than disapproval. “And if the threat is proximity itself?”
My eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“You carry influence. Influence attracts opposition. Attention. Enemies who will analyze differently now that there is more to leverage.”
I held his gaze. “Then they will learn.”
“Perhaps.” His hands folded neatly in front of him. “But pregnancy alters risk tolerance. For some women, knowledge of danger changes their choices.”
“She doesn’t run,” I said immediately.
His eyes sharpened. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Another quiet pause before he said, “then when she wakes it would be wise to discuss her future in full honesty. Including the realities that accompany your protection.”
I didn’t like the phrasing. “My protection is the reality.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Of course.” But there was something in the way he said it that irritated me. “I will ensure she is monitored closely overnight,” he added, stepping back toward the door. “Rest would benefit you as well, Mr. Rossi.”
“I don’t need rest.”
“No,” he agreed. “You need clarity. Maybe a meal and shower might help.”
Our eyes held for a second longer, and in that moment, I understood that he was not merely treating a patient, he was measuring the man standing at her bedside. The door opened quietly behind him as he left, sealing the room again.
“Looks like everyone’s a critic,” I muttered, glancing down at my blood stained clothes, the smell of smoke and gunpowder suddenly filling my nostrils. Maybe he was right.
sixty-three
. . .
Ishika– 32 years old
Consciousness returned to me in fragmented layers of sensation. First the weight of my body as if it no longer belonged to me, followed by the sharp antiseptic scent clinging to my nostrils, then the faint rhythm of a monitor. My chest ached when I tried to pull in a deep breath and something tugged at my arm, an anchor keeping me tethered to this humming blank space.
For a moment I didn’t open my eyes, afraid of what would be waiting on the other side of the dark. The distant ring of a gunshot echoed in my ear, trailed by the fiery bloom of heat through my body and then the rush of my own blood sprinting through my veins.
Remo’s face floated in and out of the darkness, his mouth murmuring words I couldn’t hear, and I felt my lips widen in response, wondering if he finally understood just how much I loved him.
Something touched my arm and my eyes flew open, the brightness making me blink a few times before outlinesflattened, easing into sterile shapes I knew well. I was in a hospital.
My eyes on the white ceiling, I swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in my throat before I shifted my gaze and paused on a familiar face.
