“Raffaele,” I begin. “When we were in the hospital…”
“You can tell me anything,” he reassures me when I trail off.
Gulping, I continue. “All I could think was that I’d done it again. Taken another life.” Sobs steal my voice, making it impossible to keep talking.
Raffaele’s arms tighten fractionally around me, his chin resting on top of my head where no bandages cover. “You saved your life and mine that day,” he says, his voice vibrating through his chest into my body. “If you hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed you. And that would have destroyed me.”
His hand strokes down my back, tracing my spine with careful precision. “I need you to understand something, Alina. What happened with my dad wasn’t your fault. What happened with your mom wasn’t wrong. You’ve carried these burdens alone for too long.”
I press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. The familiarity grounds me, reminding me that despite everything, I’m here. Alive. With him.
“I keep seeing their faces,” I admit, voice muffled against his skin. “In my dreams. My mom’s and your dad’s. Sometimes they blend together.”
“The dreams will fade,” he promises, though we both know it’s not that simple. “And I’ll be here every time you wake up from them.”
We lie there in silence for a long while, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His body heat eases some of the constant ache in my healing body. The bandages around my head itch, but the feel of his skin against mine soothes something deeper than physical pain.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words still new enough to feel fragile on my tongue. “I didn’t say it before… before everything happened. I should have.”
His hand cups the back of my neck, careful of the bandages. “We have time now,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “All the time we need.”
I close my eyes, feeling safer in this moment—broken, bandaged, and bare—than I ever have before.
Chapter 46
Raffaele
After a week of doing as little as possible on the island, we’re back at the hospital for Alina’s check-up and to get her staples removed.
“Ow,” Alina hisses as Dr. Nilsson removes yet another one.
Each metal clip pinging as it drops into the steel dish beside Alina’s head. I count them silently, my thumb stroking the back of her hand with each removal.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
Her fingers tighten around mine when the doctor hit a sensitive spot, her face remaining carefully neutral though I catch every micro-twitch of pain she tries to hide from me. Nothing escapes my notice when it comes to her.
“You’re doing great, Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” Dr. Nilsson says. His gloved fingers are gentle but efficient as they work along the curved incision where they opened my wife’s skull two weeks ago. “Just a few more, and then we’re done.”
Alina nods minutely, careful not to disturb his work. Her eyes find mine, pale blue against the stark white hospital walls. I hold her gaze, letting her anchor herself to me through the discomfort.
The wound looks better than it did a week ago—less angry, less raw—but seeing it still twists something primal and violent inside me.
“Last one,” he announces, and I feel Alina’s slight flinch as the final staple releases.
She doesn’t make a sound, my strong wife, but I see the relief flood her features when it’s over. The doctor steps back, removing his gloves with practiced efficiency.
“The incision is healing beautifully,” he says, reaching for a small penlight. “Let me check your pupillary response.”
I watch as he shines the light into each of Alina’s eyes, noting how she winces slightly at the brightness despite her effort to hide it. Photosensitivity, still present but improving, according to the notes I’ve been keeping in meticulous detail.
She sleeps better now, making it through most days without the severe headaches that left her crying silently in our bed the first few days.
“Any dizziness in the past forty-eight hours?” the doctor asks, pocketing his light.
“No,” Alina replies. “Not since Tuesday.”
Dr. Nilsson makes a note on his tablet. “And the headaches?”
