“He stopped writing me into the songs since you showed up.”
Then I see it, the glint of the blade as she pulls it free. Dominik moves before thought can catch up. One second he’s on the lawn, the next he’s at the steps, grabbing my arm, yanking me back and covering me with his body as we hit the ground.
The impact knocks the breath from me. There’s a wet sound, awful and final. He grunts, low and guttural, and his arm around me tightens once, then loosens. I twist beneath him and see it, the spreading stain of red, seeping fast through his shirt. She’s still on the porch, knife raised again.
“Piotr!” Dominik shouts, voice cracking.
It all happens in a blur. Piotr barrels out the door, hitting her so hard she goes flying off the steps and into the grass. The knife spins out of her hand. She screams, thrashes, but he pins her down with all his weight, shouting for Mama to call the police. Mama’s already shouting for Natalia to dial 911. Lena’s frozen in the doorway, pale and trembling.
From the backyard, I hear Zosia’s small voice again. “Tatus?”
Something inside me breaks. I drop to my knees beside Dominik. He’s breathing hard, shallow, his hand pressed tight to his side, but theblood keeps coming. My hands find his, pressing down harder, trying to stop the impossible.
“Keep looking at me, Nowicki. No dying allowed, that’s not the Polish man's way.”
He lets out a short, ragged laugh. “YouwishI’d die this easy. This is just your revenge for that Wedel bar.”
“Shut up,” I whisper. My throat’s closing around the words. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake.”
He tries to smile, but it fades. His eyelids flutter once, twice. Mama’s shouting that the ambulance is coming. Natalia’s crying. Piotr still has the woman pinned, he's sporting a long cut down his arm and he's bleeding now, too. Lena finally moves, rushing out with a blanket, wrapping it around Dominik’s legs.
His breathing stutters. His pulse is faint beneath my hands. I cup his face, my palms slick with blood.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He blinks once, then nods, just barely, and leans into my touch before his eyes close.
“Dominik!” I shout, shaking him. “Dominik, focus on me!”
It doesn’t make a difference. Zosia comes running, screaming, tears streaming down her face. She throws herself at him, clutching his shirt, sobbing, calling for him. Aga, not Lena, pulls her away, her own sobs breaking through the shock. Tata’s holding Kacper now, white-faced, silent.
I'm kneeling in the dirt, covered in blood, hands shaking. The air tastes like iron and panic. Every sound feels too loud, the wail of Mama on the phone, the sirensfinallyrising in the distance, slicing through the late afternoon glow. It’s a sound I’ll never forget.
The moment everything calm, everything safe, everything I thought I could protect, shattered.
My hands still smell like his blood.
I’ve washed them three times already, but the scent clings, ghosting beneath the soap. I sit in a plastic chair outside the trauma bay, my scrubs spattered dark, a thin smear of blood dried along my wrist where his pulse had been. I can still feel it there, gone, then back, then gone again.
A nurse walks past, slows, and offers a sympathetic look I can’t return. Natalia’s beside me, pale, her phone dim in her lap as she whispers updates to Mama in the waiting room. Down the hall, Piotr’s talking to a police officer, voice low and hoarse. I can see the dried blood on his collar from when he tackled her.
Lena’s in the corner, trying to comfort Zosia, who’s curled up in a blanket far too big for her. The little one’s eyelids flutter, fighting against sleep. Every time the automatic doors open, she stirs and whispers, “Tatus?” I press my palms to my face. My fingers are still trembling.
“He’s in surgery,” Natalia catches me up on the latest while I was in the bathroom, yet again. “They said it was deep, but it missed the arteries. Hit his liver and gallbladder but they said it's repairable. That’s good, right Kasia?”
I nod, but I don’t move. The liver is tricky but I don't let on about my worries. “She came to the house,” I whisper. “In the middle of dinner. Like it was nothing.”
Natalia swallows hard. “She’s not getting anywhere near you again. Piotr and Dominik saw to that. The police have her.”
I glance up at the clock. 10:47 p.m. Not long ago, we’d been laughing, teasing Piotr about overcooking the chicken with Tata's supervision. It feels like another lifetime, like that family, that dinner, belonged to someone else entirely.
The hallway’s quiet except for the vending machine. I stare at my phone on the chair beside me. I’ve picked it up twice, put it down twice. The third time, I don’t stop myself.
I scroll to his name. Rafe Ashton. The contact photo lights up the screen: that half-smile, eyes lined with kohl, soft from a hotel somewhere. He’s probably asleep. Or on a call, maybe still recording in the studio. A shadow moves across the floor.
“Dr. Sawadzka?”
I look up. A police officer stands in front of me, mid-fifties maybe, the kind of tired that looks permanent. His vest bears the SPD crest; the radio on his shoulder crackles softly. Behind him, the nurse’s station glows blue from a monitor screen.
