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"Right, rest," I echo, closing my eyes against the swell of emotion. But even in the darkness behind my lids, I can feel her presence, a beacon in the night that has become my life. And I hate how much I crave that light.
"Looks like the cat's out of the bag, huh?" I sigh behind closed lids, sinking deeper into the sea of white sheets.
"Constantino," I hear her say, "you think you're the first person to try hiding seizures from those around you? I had ahunch. There's only so many things a medical alert tattoo usually signifies."
"Figures." I open my eyes and gaze up at the ceiling, avoiding her penetrating blue eyes. The truth is, I'm not just exposed; I'm stripped bare before her—my invincibility, a façade now crumbled away.
"Tell me about it," she urges gently, reaching for my hand. Her touch is soft but certain, grounding me in a way that sets off alarms in my head. I'm not used to this—the care without strings, the concern without leverage.
"Fine." I swallow hard. "My old man, he made me get the tattoo after my first episode. Thought it'd be some kind of life-saving badge or something."
I'm tracing the outline of the medical alert tattoo on my wrist when Evelyn's voice cuts through the silence. My fingers pause, leather band forgotten.
Evelyn listens before taking my hand to stop my anxious movements. Her thumb draws small circles on the back of my hand. It's distracting, comforting. "Everyone assumed Pops favored me, but that's crap. Part of me thinks he just liked tormenting me. Taunting me with something he never actually wanted to give to me. He'd always say, 'A leader can't have weaknesses, Constantino.' So I had to prove him wrong, had to be tougher, meaner."
"And did you?" There's no judgment in her voice, only curiosity, like she's trying to unravel the enigma of who I am—not the crime lord, but the man.
"Every damn day," I confess, and my thoughts drift to all the moments I tried to outrun my own shadow. "But it doesn't matter how far you run, does it? Your shadows—they keep up just fine."
Evelyn tilts her head, giving me a tender look that threatens to undo the walls I've spent years fortifying. "Shadows canbe scary," she whispers, "but they can also mean there's light shining somewhere nearby."
"Poetic," I quip, but the sarcasm falls flat, weighed down by the sincerity pooling in her gaze.
"Maybe," she concedes, squeezing my hand. "But it's true."
"Thanks for, uh, sticking around," I mumble, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks—a sensation so foreign that it might as well be someone else's skin.
"Where else would I be?" Evelyn says, and her words are simple, yet they resonate like a vow—a promise of something terrifyingly genuine.
"Right here," I whisper, barely audible even to myself. And for the first time in a long while, I don't want to push her away. Because even though vulnerability feels like standing naked in a blizzard, with her, it's different. Maybe the cold doesn't bite as much.
"What should we do about Evan?" Her question is a scalpel, precise and probing in its incision.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, the word slipping out before I can catch it. The reality of the boy—a living ghost of the past—grips me with a cold dread that settles deep in my bones. It feels like being hunted, no matter how still you stand, you're never truly hidden.
"Constantino?" Her tone is insistent now, pulling me back from the edge of dark thoughts.
"Can't hide it from him." My voice sounds distant, even to me. "He needs to know... about his old man." The words are heavy.
"Are you going to tell him?" Evelyn asks, her blue eyes searching mine for some sign of the man she believes lurks beneath this hardened shell.
"Yeah." I nod, more to myself than to her. "He deserves that much truth."
"Even if it hurts?"
"Especially then." My gaze drifts to the window, where the world outside is cast in shades of gray. It's funny how pain can be just another shade, blending into the rest of your life until you can't remember a time without it.
"Constantino..." Her hand reaches for mine, and I flinch—not at her touch, but at the intimacy it implies.
"Listen, Evelyn." I turn to face her, forcing my eyes to meet hers. "This isn't gonna be some fairytale confession. There's no 'happily ever after' when it ends with a bullet."
"Nobody's expecting a fairytale." She squeezes my hand, her grip firm and unyielding. "But he's a child. He needs closure, not more scars."
"Scars?" I scoff, pulling away. "Scars are all we have in this life. They're the only honest thing about us."
"Maybe," she concedes, her voice gentle but steadfast. "But they don't have to define us."
"Easy for you to say." I drop my gaze, feeling the familiar pull of darkness at the edges of my vision. "You haven't lived my life."
