This was containment.
“But,” he added, glancing back at me, “he’ll be here by evening.”
The words landed softly.
I nodded, my throat tightening in a way I couldn’t quite control.
Since the rescue, Vincenzo had come every single day.
Like clockwork.
Not for long.
Three minutes, maybe less.
Always at the same time—usually when the nurses were already in the room.
While they changed dressings, checked vitals, adjusted IV lines.
Clinical moments.
Moments where conversation wasn’t expected.
He would stand there—impeccable as always, untouched by the chaos surrounding him.
Hands in his pockets or clasped behind his back.
Eyes on me, but never too long.
Never too deep.
“Are they treating you properly?”
“Is the pain manageable?”
“Let me know if anything changes.”
Clipped. Controlled. Efficient.
Then he would leave.
No lingering.
No softness.
No questions that mattered.
But he came.
Every day.
And somehow, that had become enough for me to hold onto.
Renzo pushed himself to his feet, the couch creaking faintly in protest.
He stretched once, then looked down at me with something warmer than before—something almost... genuine.
“I’m glad, Elena,” he said. “Really glad you didn’t go through the worst of what the Spanish usually do to their enemies.”
