I slide a hand down my stomach.
I don't let myself think of his name. I'm not doing that.
I think about hands instead. Large. Certain. The kind that knows how much pressure to apply and where to use it. I think about being crowded backward, no exit, no argument left. Just heat and decision and his voice in my ear.
I think about that mouth — the cruel, beautiful line of it — dragging down my throat, my collarbone, lower.
I think about a voice that drops low and says,Eat your brunch, Serafina,like it's a warning dressed up as patience, and what that voice would sound like saying other things. Telling me other things. Instructing me.
It doesn't take long.
I come quietly, jaw set, one hand pressed flat against my stomach like I'm holding myself together.
For a few seconds, I just breathe.
Then I hate myself efficiently, roll onto my side, and try to sleep.
I don't manage it for a long time.
It's nearlymidnight when I hear it.
A sound. Soft. Deliberate.
Paper against hardwood.
I'm off the bed before I decide to be, moving on quiet feet to the door. I open it.
The hallway is empty.
But on the floor, just inside the threshold, sits a single photograph. Glossy. Printed on plain paper, the kind anyone can buy.
Me.
Outside Bellevue's ambulance bay entrance. Taken from across the street at an angle, but close enough to read the lanyard around my neck. Timestamped six days ago. Before any of this started. Before the drive, before Tessaro, before Luca Moretti walked into my trauma bay and rewired my nervous system.
Someone was watching me before I became a target.
Why?
I flip it over.
Five words in block print:
WE CAN REACH YOU ANYWHERE.
My hand isn't shaking. I notice this the way I notice vitals. Data, not comfort.
My chest is a different story.
I pick up the panic button off the dresser.
I press it.
Twenty-three seconds.
I count every one of them.
That's how long it takes.
