I nod once, acknowledging his support without taking my eyes off the surgeon. “What are the risks now? What complications should I watch for?”
“With this type of injury, there’s always concern about swelling, infection, and seizures.” The surgeon speaks carefully, measuring each word. “We’ll monitor her closely, but you should be prepared. She may not be the same when she wakes up.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Ice coats my words.
“Your wife could experience memory issues, personality changes, and cognitive difficulties. They’re all possibilities with traumatic brain injuries. We won’t know the extent until she regains consciousness.”
I absorb this information like a physical blow, letting it settle into my bones. The possibility that Alina might wake up different—might not remember me, us, herself—is a new kind of terror I’ve never faced before.
“I don’t care what state she’s in,” I tell him, voice low and dangerous. “She’s mine. I’ll take care of her. Whatever it takes, for however long it takes.”
Before the surgeon can respond, a nurse appears at his side. “We’ve moved her to Room 326. She’s stable enough for one visitor.”
I don’t wait for further permission, following the nurse. Then I think better of it and stride back to the surgeon. “Thank you,”I say, my tone serious. I hold my hand out to him. “You just earned yourself the gratitude of the entire Russo family.”
The surgeon is still gaping when I turn back to watch him before following the nurse through corridors that smell of disinfectant and despair. Each step brings me closer to Alina, to seeing for myself that she’s still breathing, still fighting.
The room is dimly lit when we enter, machines casting an eerie blue glow over the bed. And there she is, my wife, looking impossibly small beneath the hospital sheets. Her head is partially shaved and heavily bandaged, her left arm encased in a pristine white cast.
IV lines snake from her arms, connecting her to bags of fluids and medications. A tube runs from her mouth to a ventilator that breathes for her with mechanical precision.
“The breathing tube is precautionary,” the nurse explains, moving to check the monitors. “We’ll likely remove it when she begins to wake up.”
I barely hear her, all my focus on Alina’s face—pale as death but still, somehow, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Because she’s alive. She’s fighting.
“I need a chair,” I say, not taking my eyes off my wife.
The nurse retrieves one from the corner, positioning it beside the bed before discreetly withdrawing from the room. The moment she’s gone, I sink into the chair and reach for Alina’s right hand, careful not to disturb the IV line taped to her skin.
Her fingers are cool against mine, delicate and still. I wrap my hand around hers, encompassing it completely, willing my warmth into her body.
“I’m here, Alina,” I murmur, my thumb tracing circles on her skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The machines beep steadily, each electronic pulse confirming she’s still with me. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, timed tothe ventilator’s rhythm. Her red hair, what remains of it, stands stark against the white pillowcase, like blood on snow.
I’ve killed men with my bare hands. Have tortured information from people who thought they could withstand anything. Have built a reputation on being merciless, unstoppable, a force of nature wearing human skin.
And yet I’ve never felt as powerless as I do now, watching my wife fight a battle I cannot fight for her.
Hours pass in a blur of nurse checks and doctor visits. I don’t move from my position, don’t release her hand, don’t take my eyes off her face for more than seconds at a time.
Colin appears occasionally with coffee I don’t drink, updates I barely acknowledge. The sky outside the window darkens, then lightens again, marking the passage of a night I barely register.
As morning light filters through the blinds, a doctor removes the breathing tube, stating that Alina’s breathing well enough on her own now. It’s a good sign, he tells me. She’s getting stronger.
When her eyelids finally flutter—a movement so slight I might have imagined it—I lean forward, breath catching in my throat.
“Alina?” I whisper, squeezing her hand gently. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter again, then open halfway. Confusion clouds her pale blue eyes as she struggles to focus under the harsh light. She winces faintly, brow tightening, before trying to speak. Only a dry rasp emerges from her throat.
“Don’t try to talk yet,” I tell her, reaching for the cup of ice chips the nurse left. “Here.” I place one against her parched lips.
She accepts it gratefully, the cool moisture reviving her enough to croak, “Raffaele?”
The sound of my name on her lips nearly breaks me. “Yes, Alina. I’m here.”
The door opens, and a nurse steps inside, already watching the monitors. “Good, you’re waking up.” She shines a small penlight briefly into Alina’s eyes. “Alina, can you hear me?”
