I let out a broken breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Seven shots to the back and one to the ribs should have killed most men,” she continued, stepping closer.
“But the bullets mostly missed vital organs.”
“One grazed his lung, another clipped a rib, but nothing hit the heart or major arteries directly. He lost a lot of blood, and we had to repair some internal damage, but he’s stabilizing now.”
“He’s in recovery, sedated and monitored closely. It’s going to be a long road, but he’s fighting.”
Relief crashed over me so hard my shoulders sagged.
I pressed a hand to my mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to escape.
The nurse offered a small, understanding smile.
“He’s tough. Stubborn, even. That helped tonight.”
She moved with calm precision to the incubator’s access panel, her gloved fingers adjusting a tiny flow valve with ease, the kind of motion honed over years of repetition.
Then she pressed her stethoscope gently against the clear dome, listening to the minuscule, insistent rise and fall of my son’s chest.
A single nod, almost imperceptible, conveyed her confidence.
“His lungs are maturing nicely. He’s stable. We’ll keep him here for a few more days to monitor him, but make no mistake—he’s a fighter. You should be proud.”
Her words cut through the haze of my exhaustion.
I stood and pressed my palm harder against the glass, willing it to feel warmer, more real, as though I could bridge the distance and cradle him against my chest.
I wanted to feel his tiny weight, to hold him like the most sacred treasure, to curl around him and shield him from the world that had tried to steal him before he even drew his first independent breath.
More footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway—heavier this time.
I turned at the sound, expecting another nurse, or perhaps Renzo returning with an update.
But it wasn’t any of them.
Vincenzo stood in the doorway like a ghost who had clawed his way back from death.
Shock slammed into me so hard.
My heart stuttered.
This was impossible.
The nurse had just told me he was stabilizing—sedated, monitored, fighting for his life after eight bullets.
Seven to the back, one to the ribs.
Yet here he was, standing barely ten feet away, pale as death itself.
He looked like hell.
A loose hospital gown hung off his broad shoulders, half-unbuttoned at the chest, revealing thick white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.
Dark crimson stains already seeped through the gauze on his left side where the rib shot had torn into him.
IV lines still trailed from the back of his hand, the clear tubing swaying as he took an unsteady step forward.
