Tears well up unexpectedly. If he knew what I’d done to survive… I have a sick feeling he’d be proud.
The last thing I ever wanted was to behave in ways that would make my piece-of-shit father proud.
The doctor leaves.
Nero takes my hand again and says something about me not needing to worry about anything. That I’m safe. That I’ll be out of here soon.
But his words don’t bring any comfort. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth sealed tight, until darkness drags me back under.
Nero doesn’t sleep.For the next few days, whenever I wake up, he’s there, keeping an eye on me from a chair placed beside my bed.
He makes sure I have everything I need, feeds me the food the nurses bring, and overreacts to every comment I make about something hurting.
When I need to use the bathroom, he’s there, walking me to the toilet with a carefully placed arm around my waist. I cling to him, weaker than ever. The room I’m in isn’t large, but it seems to magically expand in size when I’m trying to get to the other side.
The care with which he’s treating me stirs up unpleasant, shameful feelings. I don’t deserve his compassion. I don’t deserveanyone’scompassion. I was right to be scared of what being in this world could do to me, but I had no idea what kind of monster truly lurked within.
Cleo and Rafaele come by to see me. Rafaele wishes me a quick recovery in a few short words, his voice low and gruff. He stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, and watches the monitors as if he’s silently assessing my condition and verifying if the doctors are right.
Cleo is the opposite. She rushes over to my bedside, hugs me, and then proceeds to ask me a million questions about how I’m doing. Unlike her husband, she pays no attention to the monitors, but she comes up with a long list of things I “absolutely need” for my recovery—a weighted eye mask, lavender-scented pillow spray, and something called a “healing crystal” that she swears by. But despite her slightly ridiculous suggestions, I’m warmed by her genuine concern.
When the men leave the room to get some coffee, she pulls up a chair, sits down, and clasps my hand. “I’ve been there, you know? My own father held me at gunpoint. Only I didn’t manage to save myself like you did. I had to wait for Nero and Rafe to come to my rescue.” She exhales, her gaze distant. “It took me a long time to get over it.”
Of course. I’ve heard the story from Nero’s point of view, but I never thought about what it was like for Cleo.
“How did you feel in the aftermath?”
“Angry. And I felt guilty for everything—for being dumb enough to jump into my dad’s car, for not fighting his men harder, for being the reason Nero and Sandro got sent away.” She blinks at me, her eyes the color of bright emeralds. “And honestly, I can’t say that I’ve stopped feeling guilty, even after all this time.”
My face falls, and I look down at my lap.
I feel guilty for what happened to Sandro. I feel guilty for lying to Nero. But I don’t feel guilty for killing Ekaterina.
I wish I did.
Because my lack of guilt seems so much worse. It makes me feel sick, messed up, broken. What is wrong with me?
In the days following Cleo and Rafe’s visit, Nero doesn’t bring up the night I got shot at all, as if he knows talking about it might make me spiral. During the hours I’m awake, he reads to me. Sometimes we play cards, and he lets me win.
There’s a delivery one afternoon. An extravagant bouquet of peonies, roses, and lilies of the valley.
Nero brings it to me so that I can smell the flowers. “From Vita. There’s a card. She and Gino wanted to visit, but I told them no. I didn’t want them to disturb you.”
I fish out the small sealed envelope. “You didn’t read it?”
“It’s for you.”
I tear it open and pull out the card. On the front is a painting of flowers, just like the ones in the bouquet, with the words “Get Better Soon” written in cursive. Inside, there’s a simple message above a phone number. "Thank you. Remember to call me if you need anything."
Tears prick the backs of my eyes.
Well, here it is. I finally got what I wanted. My favor. My all-important escape plan, should I ever need it.
I should be happy, right?
But I’m not.
Because now I feel even more trapped—trapped being a version of myself I don’t recognize.
