Page 135 of The Cost of Silence

“Then I’ll stay,” Adi says immediately. “Letty is safe at home. Half of our security team is with her. You go to Rossi. We’ve split the load before and we can do it again.”

“We’re not leaving her uncovered,” I warn.

“You’re not the only one who cares about her, Nico,” he says quietly. “I’ll keep them safe. You get whatever Rossi dragged himself back from the brink to tell you.”

He’s right. I hate that he’s right, but I nod anyway. “Call if anything feels off,” I say. “Anything. I don’t care if it’s a light flickering.”

“I will.”

Matteo claps my shoulder as I pass. “Tell him he’s not allowed to die,” he says. “He still owes me fifty bucks.”

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You tell him that.”

“Go.”

I take the private elevator down, switch to a car without plates anyone would recognize, and push it harder than I should through midtown traffic. The city is its usual mess, honking taxis, flashing lights, pedestrians daring death at every crosswalk, but it all feels thinner now, like scenery behind glass.

The hospital is chaos in an organized way. I park illegally in the physicians’ lot, not caring if I get a ticket.

They lead me through antiseptic corridors that smell like bleach and recycled air, past curtained bays and nurses moving at a pace just below a run. We reach a small room off the surgical wing where Rossi lies pale under too-white sheets, wires and tubes everywhere.

He looks wrong like this. Smaller. Less invincible. The man has been with us since I was a boy, and is more family than anything else. If something happens to him and he doesn’t make it, I’ll raise hell.

There’s a monitor above his head, its beeps a jagged rhythm that doesn’t match the steady, unflappable man I know. A nurse is adjusting a drip; another is conferring with a doctor at the foot of the bed.

“Two minutes,” the doctor says, turning to me. “He asked for you. We’re about to take him back in.”

I nod and move to the side of the bed. “Rossi,” I say.

His eyes crack open, dark and heavy-lidded, pupils dilated from pain meds. It takes him a second to focus. When he does, his mouth twitches in what might pass for a smile on a better day.

“Boss,” he rasps.

I lean in so he doesn’t have to strain. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Boring,” he mutters. “Listen.”

His hand gropes for mine. I take it, surprised by how cold his fingers are. He squeezes once, with more strength than he should have.

“Domenico,” he says.

Ice slides down my spine. “What about him?”

“Here.” His breath hitches; he fights for the next words. “He was here. In the hallway. When I woke up the first time.”

My grip tightens. “He came into your room?”

“Yes.” Rossi’s jaw clenches briefly, whether from pain or fury, I can’t tell. “Saw him. Didn’t think it was real at first. Thought I was dreaming. He was talking to someone. Left something.”

The doctor glances up, frowning. “One minute.”

“What did he leave?” I ask, ignoring the warning.

Rossi’s hand shifts, fingers fumbling at his chest. The nurse helps him, sliding a hand under the edge of the hospital gown to pull out a folded scrap of card that had been tucked against the bandage tape, hidden where only he or someone stripping him would find it.

She passes it to me without comment. Hospitals see worse things than notes on wounded men.

I unfold it.