“Did he say anything else?” I ask.
“I was kicked out of the room so the doctors could do some scans.”
“Keep him awake,” I order.
“Don, the nurse said he needs—”
“Keep him awake.”
“Yes,Don.”
I end the call and turn to Spike.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of this mess.”
“I’ll drive,” Foster says.
The drive to the hospital is a blur.
Too slow.
Too long.
By the time we reach the hospital, I’m out before the vehicle fully stops.
Luca is waiting near the private entrance, face drawn.
“He’s weak,” he says quickly. “Doctor wants him calm.”
“He should have thought of that before getting shot.”
For one brief second, Luca smirks.
He turns and leads me down the hall.
The smell of antiseptic cuts through the blood still on my clothes.
Soon, we’re standing outside an ICU door in the private sector of the hospital. The one I help fund.
Luca opens the door, and there he is.
Stefano.
Pale against white sheets.
Chest wrapped.
Tubes and monitors attached to him like machines are the reason he’s still alive and not sheer stubbornness.
His eyes open when I step inside.
For one second, he’s not the man in that hospital bed.
He is my twin.
My brother.
The other half of every memory I have before blood and power and duty made us into different men.
