It helps. A little.
"Better," he says, and returns his attention to the window.
We don't speak again for the rest of the drive.
The hospital is in chaos.
Or maybe it's always like this and I just never noticed. Sirens. Shouting. People in scrubs running past with gurneys and equipment. The fluorescent lights are too bright, too harsh. They make everything look washed out and wrong.
A woman in a pantsuit intercepts us at the entrance. Hospital administrator, based on the badge clipped to her jacket.
"Mr. Murphy." She's breathless, nervous. "We've prepared a private wing as requested. Mr. O'Rourke is being prepped for surgery now. If you'll follow me…"
"No." My voice cuts through her practiced speech. "I'm going wherever my father is going."
She blinks at me. "I'm sorry, but visitors aren't allowed in the surgical…"
"I'm not a visitor. I'm his daughter." I step forward, and she steps back. Good. "Take me to him. Now."
The woman looks to William like he has some kind of authority over me. Like he can tell me what to do. The thought makes rage flare hot in my chest.
"You heard her," William says, and I hate how much relief I feel at those three words.
We're led through a maze of corridors. White walls. Tile floors. The smell of antiseptic so strong it burns my nose. People stare as we pass. At the blood. At the security team surrounding us. At William, who probably looks exactly like what he is—a Mafia prince with death in his eyes.
The private wing is quieter. Emptier. Just a few nurses moving between rooms with clipboards and concerned expressions. The administrator leads us to a room at the end of the hall.
Through the window in the door, I can see Father.
He's on a bed. Tubes everywhere. Monitors beeping. His throat is wrapped in bandages that are already soaking through with red. A doctor leans over him, checking the IV line.
My legs stop working.
I'm frozen in the hallway, staring through that window at my father, who's always been invincible. Who built our family from nothing. Who survived wars and betrayals and decades in a world designed to kill him.
He looks so small.
"Aoife." William's hand on my shoulder. "They need to take him to surgery."
I know that. Know they're about to wheel him away to cut him open and try to put him back together. Know I might not see him alive again.
The thought breaks something in me.
I push open the door and stumble inside. The doctor looks up, startled.
"Just a moment," I say. It comes out as a plea. "Please. Just one moment."
The doctor hesitates, then nods and steps back.
I move to Father's bedside. His eyes are closed. They've probably given him something for the pain.His chest rises and falls in shallow movements that make me think of birds with broken wings.
"Dad." My voice cracks. I hate it. Hate how young I sound. How scared. "I'm here."
He doesn't respond. His eyes remain closed.
I take his hand. His skin is cold. Too cold.
"I love you," I whisper. The words feel inadequate. Too small for what's happening. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
