Alina
The wheelchair feels like an insult to my dignity, but Raffaele’s hands grip the handles with such fierce protectiveness that I don’t have the heart to argue anymore.
The nurse hovers nearby with discharge papers clutched to her chest, watching as my husband—the man who hasn’t left my side for seven straight days—prepares to take me away from this sterile prison of beeping machines and pitying glances.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly, for what must be the tenth time this morning. Guess I wasn’t done arguing after all.
“You can walk when the doctor says you can walk,” Raffaele replies, his tone brooking no argument. “Or when you can take more than two steps without wobbling. Whichever comes first.”
The vibration of his voice travels from his hands through the metal of the chair and into my body, as if he’s physically staking his claim on every part of me.
My left arm sits useless in a sling, the cast feeling heavier than it should. The bandages around my head are tight and itchy, covering the shaved portion where they drilled into my skull to save my life.
I’ve avoided mirrors since that first glimpse a few days ago. There’s only so much I can process at one time, and my already struggling self-esteem doesn’t need a dose of reality right now.
The elevator doors slide open, and Raffaele maneuvers me inside with careful precision. Then he takes the discharge papers from the nurse, who purses her lips like she’s holding back whatever’s on her mind.
“Remember, Mrs. Brewer-Russo, you’ll need to return for a follow-up in one week,” she says, eyes darting nervously to Raffaele. “And absolutely no air travel until the doctor clears you.”
I nod, immediately regretting the movement as pain lances through my skull. “I know,” I grumble.
Stepping away, she allows the doors to close, and Raffaele hits the button for the first floor. Knowing what’s waiting for me, I reach for the sunglasses hanging around my neck. Raffaele got them for me after my second day here.
They’re specialized glasses designed specifically for headaches and light sensitivity. I’ve practically had them on all the time for the past week. But for some reason, I wanted to make it to the car without them.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because there’s so little I can control, so this seemed like the hill to die on. How wrong I was. I get them on just in time for the elevator doors to open to the hospital lobby, and the noise hits me like a physical force.
Voices, footsteps, and the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. Everything amplified by the lingering sensitivity of my injured brain. I wince, and Raffaele notices immediately.
“Too much?” he asks quietly, leaning down so only I can hear him.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because what choice do I have? I can’t stay in this hospital forever, and I refuse to be more of a burden than I already am.
He doesn’t believe me—I can tell by the slight tightening of his jaw—but he doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he wheels me toward the exit with determined strides that part the crowd like water around the bow of a ship.
The automatic doors slide open, and for the first time in a week, I feel fresh air on my skin. It’s heavy with tropical humidity, thick with the scent of salt and flowers and life. After days of antiseptic sterility, it’s almost overwhelming.
I close my eyes and breathe it in, feeling my lungs expand with something very close to relief.
“I’ve rented a house nearby,” Raffaele says, breaking into my thoughts as he wheels me toward a waiting SUV. “We can stay there until you’re fully recovered.”
I open my eyes and stare up at him. Even through the sunglasses, I have to squint against the Caribbean sun. “No,” I say firmly. “I want to go back to the island.”
He stops pushing, coming around to crouch in front of me. His sage-green eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I can give him. “Are you sure? After what happened there…”
“I’m sure.” My hand—the good one—reaches for his face, fingers tracing the stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave during his hospital vigil. “If we leave now, I’ll never come back. And I need to face it. I won’t let him win by making me run away again.”
Raffaele’s eyes darken at the mention of his dad, though I haven’t actually said Andrea’s name. I still see the moment ofimpact sometimes when I close my eyes; the knife sliding into flesh, the look of shock on his face.
But then I remember what came before, Ian’s body crumpling to the floor, Andrea’s hands around my throat, his promises to use my death to break his son.
“If that’s what you want,” Raffaele says finally, though I can tell it’s not what he wants. “But you’ll rest. You’ll follow every doctor’s order. And the second—the very second—you need to leave, we go. No arguments.”
I nod, careful this time to minimize the movement. “Deal.”
The ride to the dock passes in silence, Raffaele’s hand never leaving mine except when necessary. His eyes constantly check on me, as if he expects me to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. Maybe I will. But not today.
When we reach the dock, I seeLa Fortunabobbing gently in the water, restored to its pristine state. No trace remains of my desperate flight, my bloodied handprints on the wheel. Raffaele must read something in my expression, because his grip tightens on my hand.
