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"True," she acknowledges, standing up. "But I've seen enough lives fall apart in the ER to know that hiding from the truth doesn't save anyone."
"God, you're infuriating," I groan, but there's no heat behind my words. "Always have to be right, don't you?"
"Comes with the territory," she replies, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "I'm proud of you for doing the right thing, by the way. You always do, eventually."
"Keep telling yourself that, Doc." I lean back against the pillows, exhaustion seeping into my limbs. The fight has gone out of me, at least for now.
"Get some rest," she says softly, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Rest," I echo again, and as my eyelids grow heavy, I understand that in this room, with her by my side, for the first time, I'm not alone. Not really. And that thought, more than anything, lulls me into a sleep devoid of the nightmares that usually claw at my subconscious.
For once, there's quiet in the carnage of my mind. And it's terrifying. Beautiful. But mostly terrifying.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The door to Evan's room creaks open, a telltale squeal of hinges that haven't seen oil in ages. Constantino hobbles beside me, his grip on my arm like iron—firm and cold. He's too proud for a cane, too damn stubborn to show any hint of weakness, not even now. The moonlight spills across the small bed where Evan lies, his chest rising and falling with the quiet breaths of slumber.
Our entrance seems to wake him, as he stirs in his bed. "Is... is Dad here?" Evan's voice is thick with sleep, his eyes blinking owlishly as he sits up, trying to piece together the shadows that loom over him.
Constantino releases my arm, limping the last few steps to the bedside. He lowers himself down, wincing slightly as if each movement is a battle against his own body. I stand back, a spectator to this intimate tragedy, watching as the hero—or maybe the villain of our dark tale—prepares to shatter a child's world.
"Your dad," Constantino starts, his voice barely above a whisper, "he's gone, Evan."
The boy's brows knit together, confusion etching lines far too serious for a face so young. "Gone? Like... like Mom?"
A heavy sigh escapes Constantino, and he shakes his head, his dark hair catching the silver light. "No, not like that. Your dad... he wanted nothing more than to be with you. But he died, and it's because of me."
Every word weighs a ton, and I can see the tremor in his hands, the green of his eyes dull with regret. It's a side of him I've never witnessed—the raw, unguarded sorrow of a man who has walked through fire but couldn't save another from the flames.
"Because of you?" Evan's voice is small, struggling to wrap around a truth too bitter to swallow. "Did you... did you hurt him?"
"No, no." Constantino reaches out, hesitant, before resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I made mistakes, Evan. Dangerous ones. And your father... he was caught in it."
I watch, silent as a ghost, as something shifts in the air between them. The stark reality of loss, the burden of guilt—it hangs heavy in the room. Constantino, the man who thrives on control, lays his soul bare to a child who understands little of this cruel world we're all chained to.
"Are you going to send me away?" Evan's question pierces the gloom, his eyes searching Constantino's face for a hint of what comes next.
And there it is—a fleeting moment where Constantino's facade cracks just enough to let the light of humanity shine through. He doesn't answer immediately, not with words, but the resolve in his grip says more than I ever thought possible from a man like him.
In the stillness, in the shadow of grief and a future uncertain, I see the contours of a man redefined by the pain he's causedand the responsibilities he's unwilling to forsake. Constantino Maldonado, for all his darkness, might just have a flicker of redemption left in him after all.
Tears, the kind I never thought a man like Constantino could shed, well up in his eyes. They're raw, unguarded—so alien on his stoic face. Evan blinks back his own confusion, his small chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
Constantino's breath hitches, and he swallows hard, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand—a gesture so painfully human it twists something deep inside me. "You're staying here, Evan. With me, in the mansion. I'm going to take care of you."
The words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected. My mind races, trying to align this Constantino—the one making solemn oaths to a grieving child—with the man who collects scars like trophies and looks at life through a lens tinted with blood.
He shifts closer to the boy, reaching out with an awkward tenderness that seems to fight against every fiber of his being. Evan leans into the touch, a small sigh escaping him as if he's releasing the weight of the world from his tiny shoulders.
"Really?" Hope mingles with doubt in the boy's voice, as fragile as the silence that wraps around us.
"Really," Constantino confirms, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a promise that feels as though it's etched into his very soul.
I stand there, a silent witness to a pledge made in the quiet darkness of a child's room—a vow that speaks of redemption and a future tethered to the life of an innocent. It's a surreal tableau that paints Constantino in shades I didn't know existed in his dark palette. The idea that he would step into the role of guardian, of all things, is jarring, dissonant with everything I thought I knew about him.
My gaze drifts over them, the hunter and the haunted, bound together by tragedy and a sense of duty that comes too late forsome but just in time for others. And for the first time, I let myself wonder if there's more to Constantino Maldonado than the violence and the vengeance—if beneath the layers of sinew and secrets, there beats a heart capable of something as pure as caring for a child left alone in the dark.
The room is dark, a single lamp casting shadows that play upon Constantino's features, softening the hard lines of his face as he cradles Evan against his chest. His green eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, now swim with tears, their luminescence muted by grief. The sight of him, this man wrought from violence and anger, breaking before a child—it's like watching a storm pass over to reveal the fragile calm after.
