Barely. Just slits of green beneath heavy lids. But she's looking at me. Seeing me.
Her lips move. No sound comes out, but I read the word anyway.
Bruno.
"I'm here." I drag myself up another step. "I'm right here, baby."
Her eyes close again. But her hand moves. Reaches toward me.
I grab it. Her fingers are cold and weak, but they curl around mine.
"Don't let go," I tell her. "Don't you fucking let go."
She squeezes my hand.
It's barely any pressure at all. A ghost of a grip. But it's enough.
I climb the rest of those stairs holding my wife's hand, my legs screaming with every step, tears still wet on my face.
I don't let go.
CHAPTER FORTY
Bruno
The wheelchair feels like a coffin.
I grip the armrests hard enough to make the leather creak. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen fucking minutes since they wheeled Antonella through those doors and nobody has told me a goddamn thing.
The clinic hallway stretches white and sterile in both directions. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils. I hate this place. Hate the way it reminds me of waking up two years ago, paralyzed and alone, my whole world ripped away while I slept.
I won't use this chair again after tonight. I don't care if my legs give out. I don't care if I have to crawl. The moment Antonella is safe, this thing goes in the fucking trash.
My knuckles are still bloody. Scar's blood. I emptied an entire magazine into his corpse and it wasn't enough. Should have made him suffer longer. Should have peeled the skin from his bones like I did to that hijacker in the warehouse.
The door stays closed.
I wheel forward and pound my fist against it. The sound echoes down the empty corridor.
"Open the fucking door!"
Nothing.
Valentino stands against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating calm he always maintains.
"You're not helping," he says.
I spin the chair to face him. "It will help me if you shut the fuck up."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't react at all. Just keeps watching me with those steady dark eyes that have seen me at my worst and never looked away.
I turn back to the door and pound again. "I want to know what's happening to my wife!"
The doctor—some grey-haired bastard named Morrison who runs this private clinic for families like ours—refused to let me in. Said I'd be in the way. Said they needed space to work.
I pointed my gun at his head.
He still said no.
