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"Will he be okay?" the boy's tiny voice cuts through my thoughts, his eyes wide and trusting. God, what do I tell him?
"Shh," I soothe, though my own heart is clawing its way up my throat. "Just stay quiet, okay?"
I glance back the way we came, half-expecting to see Constantino stumbling after us, invincible as ever. But there's nothing—just the echo of our flight and the ghost of a gunshot that still rings in my ears.
"Everything's going to be fine," I lie, because what else can I do? The truth—that we might be running straight into another nightmare—is a weight too heavy to bear.
The chaos outside is a distant storm, the sounds muffled by thick hospital walls. Nurses and orderlies glance at each other with furrowed brows, their hands stilled on charts and medicinetrays. I weave through them, Evan's hand clutched in mine, his small fingers cold and clammy. The back file room looms ahead. It's small and out of the way and the perfect hiding place.
"Stay here," I tell a wide-eyed intern who looks like he might bolt toward the waiting room to see what's going on. "Trust me, it's not your fight." He nods, uncertain, as I push past him, my heart thumping a jagged rhythm against my ribs.
I'm not sure if they believe me, if they understand the kind of danger that's clawing at the edges of this sterile place. They don't know about the Irish, about the vendetta that's now mine to shoulder. The truth is, I don't want to know how far this rabbit hole goes.
We reach the file room, and I throw us both inside, slamming the door shut behind us and locking us inside. The room is a tomb of forgotten records and stale air. I flick off the light, and the darkness wraps around us.
"Can I see my dad?" Evan's voice is a whisper, a fragile thing in the dark.
I crouch down to his level, my eyes searching his face even though I can barely see him. "Not right now, Evan," I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my gut. "It's not safe out there."
"Is it because of the bad men?" he asks, and there's a knowledge in his tone that knots my insides—a wisdom no child should have.
"Something like that," I admit, wondering how many times he's been ushered away, told to hide while violence unfolds just beyond his sight. "But I won't let anything happen to you. You have my word."
"Okay," he says, and the trust he places in me feels heavier than any gun.
I hug him close to my chest, trying to make us both smaller, invisible. In the dark, I feel my carefully constructed wallscrumbling, revealing the raw nerves beneath. It's too much—Constantino bleeding out, the boy trembling against me, the weight of my own betrayals and insecurities. But I can't break down, not when Evan needs me to be strong.
"Are we going to be okay?" His question hangs in the air between us, heavy with things unsaid.
I swallow hard, fighting back the lump in my throat. "We will," I lie again, because hope is all I have left to offer. "We just have to stay here and stay quiet."
He nods, and I can feel his little body relax against mine. We sit there, two souls adrift in a sea of darkness, waiting for a dawn that seems too far away. My mind races, plotting our next move, while part of me longs for a reckless abandon, a moment where none of this matters. But desire is a luxury I can't afford—not now, not ever.
In the silence, I listen to the sound of my own heartbeat, a reminder that I'm still alive, that I have something to fight for.
The wail of sirens slices through the thick silence. My arms tighten around Evan instinctively, as if I could shield him from the world's cruelties with my embrace alone. The hospital's on lockdown, each blare a reminder of the danger Constantino has dragged us into. I should be furious, livid at the way he treats life like it's his personal chessboard.
But even still, I want him to live.
"Will they come in here?" Evan's voice trembles against me, his words muffled by the fabric of my shirt.
I press a kiss to the top of his head, wishing I could believe my own reassurances. "No, sweetie. We're safe here."
Sleep creeps up on us. Evan's breaths become rhythmic, soft puffs of air that stir the loose strands of my hair. As his weight grows heavy against me, sleep claims him first. I follow not long after, slipping into a restless slumber, haunted by dreams of shadows and gunshots.
"Evelyn."
I jerk awake, my heart pounding a frantic beat. It's dark, so dark, but there's a sliver of light from the hallway, casting a lopsided rectangle on the floor. I recognize the sound of his voice.
"Constantino?" My voice is barely above a murmur, a mix of hope and dread swirling together.
I move to the door and open it just a crack. I can see him. His body sways as he limps down the hallway, and there's a dark stain spreading across his side that chills me more than any nightmare could.
I open the door further and gesture to him. He sees me and makes his way to me. The world outside our little sanctuary is hectic, with nurses and doctors running this way and that, everyone seemingly frantic from the shootout that occurred up front.
Evan stirs beside me, his small hand clutching at my arm. "Is my dad here?" His question is innocent, hopeful. My gaze flickers between the boy and Constantino, searching his face for a sign of reassurance to give.
But Constantino's head shake is slow, deliberate, and it feels like the ground is crumbling beneath my feet. A gasp escapes me, a little burst of grief for a child who doesn't yet know he's lost everything.
