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“Hey, Mom.” My voice comes out softly, the way it always does when I talk to her. Like I’m telling a secret. “I have some news.”

Despite my headache, the monitor’s beeping feels like a reassuring constant today.

“You’re going somewhere new today.” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “A place called Langford. It’s a neurological institute, and it’s really good, from what I hear.” I pause, swallow. “There’s a doctor there. Dr. Morgan. She’s… intense. You’d like her, I think. She doesn’t waste time being nice, which is honestly refreshing.”

I continue telling Mom about the move and about Dr. Morgan. A breath catches in my chest when I get to the part about me not being able to visit as much anymore.

“Dr. Morgan says it’s for the best, Mom, and I, well, I trust her.” I take a shuddering breath.

Even though I’m dying to talk to her about the authorization forms Dad signed, I don’t mention it. I mean, I don’t even understand enough to repeat it. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell her just in case it somehow causes her stress or worry.

That is… if she can even hear me.

Dammit, at that thought, tears fall from my eyes in a steady stream. I lick my lips when the salty drops reach my mouth.

“I’ll come see you whenever they let me.”

Leaning forward, I press my forehead to the back of her hand. Her skin smells like hospital soap and something underneath that’s still her, something the antiseptic hasn’t erased.

“I love you,” I murmur against her knuckles. “I’ll see you soon.”

Behind me, near the door, Domenico stands with his arms crossed. I heard him come in while I was talking to Mom, but I refused to acknowledge his intrusion.

It hurts when I stand up. My legs are stiff from sitting too long, and the hangover has settled into a dull, persistent ache behind my eyes. I take one last look at Mom—her face peaceful, her breathing even, the thin line between her eyebrows.

She looks like she’s concentrating on something just out of reach. Maybe she is. Maybe somewhere in the dark, she’s fighting her way back to me. God, let it happen.

I take one step toward the door. Then another. Each one feels like walking away from something—someone—I’m not ready to leave.

Domenico moves when I reach him. Not crowding me, just shifting to make room, and his hand finds the small of my back. The touch is light, guiding, and I don’t pull away. His palm is warm through my clothes, and for a second, I let myself lean into it.

But only for a second, because once we’re out of here, my husband has a lot of explaining to do.

16

Kira

“How long?” The words tear out of my throat before the elevator doors have fully closed behind us. “How long have you been interfering with my mom’s care?”

My voice echoes off the penthouse walls, too loud for the space, too raw for the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Domenico doesn’t flinch. He walks past me, jacket already off, throwing it over the back of the sofa with a flick of his wrist.

“Answer me.” I follow him into the living room, my shoes still on because I haven’t stopped moving since we left the hospital. “Domenico. Look at me.”

When he turns, his face is calm. Infuriatingly, unreasonably calm. The kind of calm that… that… that’s pissing me off even more, which I didn’t think was even possible.

“How long?” I ask again, quieter this time. The anger’s burning through the exhaustion, and my hands are shaking. “When did that happen?”

The drive home from the hospital plays in fragments behind my eyes. Me pressed against the passenger door, forehead against the cool glass, watching Boston slide past without seeing any of it. Domenico’s hands on the wheel, his jaw working, the silence between us building like pressure behind a dam.

We didn’t speak. Not when he parked. Not in the elevator. Not until I couldn’t hold it back anymore, and now the dam’s broken, and everything’s flooding out.

“Harry came to see me,” Domenico says, finally turning my monologue into a conversation.

God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this livid in my life. Despite everything that’s happened, despite what Dad’s done to me, this is the straw that broke my back. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about Mom.

“When?”

“Harry came to see me the day I dealt with Greg.”