Chapter 6 Rocco
Chapter Six
ROCCO
Pain wakes me.
It isn’t sharp. Sharp would be a mercy. This is a heavy, structural throb that starts deep in the marrow of my bones and bleeds outward until my entire left arm feels like it’s being crushed in a vice.
My left hand is a planet of hurt. It has its own gravity, a constant, crushing weight that drags every nerve in my system down toward the raw, stitched center of my palm.
I open my eyes. The ceiling is low, pressing down on me.
Water stains have mapped out a continent of black rot on the plaster, the edges curling like parched skin.
A single bulb hangs from a frayed wire, dead and useless.
Grey, watery light stabs through the gaps of a wool blanket tacked over the window.
I try to sit up. My body is a sack of wet sand.
Cold metal bites into my right wrist.
The sound hits me a split second after the sensation—a sharp, mechanical clink that echoes loudly in the quiet room. It cuts through the thick fog in my skull and drops me violently into the present.
I yank my arm. The chain rattles. The flimsy cot frame shudders and groans under my weight.
Handcuffs. My own. I keep them in the inside pocket of my jacket for situations that need a more personal touch than a zip tie. The left cuff is clamped tightly on my wrist. The right is threaded through the rusted metal crossbar of the cot and locked to itself.
The son of a bitch chained me to my own bed.
Rage hits me like a kick to the teeth. My vision narrows to a red point of white-hot heat. I pull again. I put two hundred and forty pounds of pure, unadulterated fury into the pull.
The cheap aluminum frame screams in protest. The metal bends, whining as it deforms under the stress.
The heavy canvas of the cot tears at the grommet near my head.
One more good pull and the crossbar will snap entirely.
I can feel the molecular structure of the cheap metal starting to give way under the force.
I stop.
My left hand is a clean, white cocoon of fresh gauze.
It looks professional. The dressing runs from my knuckles to my wrist in a tight, even figure-eight pattern.
My forearm is wrapped, too. I can feel the distinct tug of fresh sutures underneath, the thread pulling at skin that is swollen and radiating enough heat to cook a meal on.
He fixed me. The doctor. He cut into Killian, then he cut into me, then he treated me like a rabid dog in a kennel.
I force myself to breathe. The air in the small room is stale and close. It tastes of old wood and the sharp, chemical edge of antiseptic. My ribs grind with every single inhalation, a fresh reminder of the hallway fight. That entire night is a violent, chaotic blur of impact and blood.
My head pounds, a rhythmic hammering against the inside of my temples. My body feels like it was dismantled by a mechanic who didn't know how to put the pieces back together.
The door groans open on dry, rusted hinges.
Dr. Adrian Sterling walks in.
He’s carrying a glass of water and a single white pill. He looks worse than he did when I snatched him from his apartment. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, stained dark with blood that has already begun to turn brown. Mine. Killian’s. Probably a mix of both.
His glasses are crooked. The left arm is bent, sitting at an awkward angle on his face.
His dark hair is a mess, strands falling across a forehead marked by a deep, exhaustion-driven pallor.
The hollows under his eyes look like dark, sunken bruises.
He’s been awake too long. He’s running on fumes and whatever cold logic is still sparking in his brain.
He stops in the doorway. His pale eyes drop to the bent metal of the cot and the chain pulled taut against my wrist. He looks at it with that flat, measuring gaze that makes my knuckles itch.
"You were delirious," he says. His voice is a low, steady drone, completely devoid of any vibration. "You grabbed my wrist hard enough to damage the radial nerve. I restrained you for my own safety. I’m not interested in being part of your casualty count."
"Uncuff me."
"No."
The word is a slap. He says it the exact same way he told me to pull over on the highway. No fear. No inflection. Just a clinical decision he has already filed away in his head.
"Uncuff me, or I break this frame and come find the key myself. I’ll dismantle this whole shack with my bare hands."
"If you break that frame, you’ll tear the sutures in your palm," he says, his voice not rising a single decibel. "The wound will reopen. I’ll have to debride the muscle without anesthesia because we’re out of ketamine.
You’ll be in more pain than you can possibly imagine, and that hand will be a useless, necrotic stump for a month. "
He sets the glass of water on a small wooden chair. He doesn't move any closer.
"Killian is stable," he continues. "I repaired the bowel and stopped the mesenteric hemorrhage. He needs constant monitoring. If you want to see him, you will stay on that cot until your blood pressure is functional and you stop looking like you’re about to pass out on the floor again."
I stare at him. The wall he builds around himself is flawless. Every word is precise. Every fact is a shield.
But I see the hard tension in his jaw. His thin shoulders are rigid as iron bars. He is standing in a room with a man who promised to snap his bones in half, and the sheer effort of not flinching is costing him more than he wants me to see.
He’s afraid. He’s just better at hiding it than most men are at showing it.
"Killian’s alive?"
"Yes. He’s lucky you found me."
"The medic?"
"Garrett is watching him. His vitals are steady. He’s resting."
I flex my right hand. The cold steel of the handcuff digs into the bone of my wrist, a biting pressure. My left hand pulses in its cage of gauze, a heavy, rhythmic throb that matches the frantic beat of my heart.
"Uncuff me. I won't touch you. You have my word."
His pale eyes narrow behind the crooked glasses. He’s running the odds. He’s calculating the risk the way he’d measure a dosage of morphine. I can practically hear the math clicking in his head, assessing the weight of my word against the potential impact of my fists.
"I’ll release you on one condition. You do not move from this cot until I clear you. If you stand up too fast, you’ll hit the floor, and I don't have the physical strength to lift you again. You weigh as much as an engine block."
A condition. The doctor is trying to negotiate with me. I want to laugh, but my ribs feel like they're being held together by rust and sheer spite. I settle for a low grunt of agreement.
"Fine. Get it over with."
He produces the handcuff key from his pocket. It’s a small, silver thing. He leans over me to reach the cuff on the crossbar of the cot. His arm crosses my chest. The sleeve of his bloodstained shirt brushes against my bare skin.
He’s warm. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the faint scent of bergamot soap and old, dried blood. His long fingers work the lock. The mechanism clicks, a small, quiet metallic victory. The steel releases from my wrist.
I pull my arm free. The skin is a red, angry, abraded ring. I rub it, feeling the burn.
He steps back immediately. The distance is a choice. He stays close enough to watch me, but far enough to bolt if I move.
Smart. Annoying, but smart.
"Sit up. Slowly."
I do. The room tilts violently on its axis. My vision greys out at the edges, a static-filled void. I grip the cot frame with my right hand until the world stops spinning. My head weighs a thousand pounds. My mouth tastes like iron and sour bile.
He hands me the water. I drain the glass in four long swallows, the cold liquid hitting my empty stomach like a rock. He hands me the white pill.
"Amoxicillin," he says. "You need it to keep the infection out of those sutures. I will not have you losing a hand on my watch."
I take it without a word. I don't argue with medicine. I saw a man in Dannemora lose a limb to a simple shank wound because the infirmary was empty for the weekend. I’m not losing my hand to a Russian’s knife.
He wraps a blood pressure cuff around my right bicep. The velcro is a harsh ripping sound in the quiet room. He pumps the bulb, the rubber wheezing rhythmically in his fist. He watches the gauge with a narrow, focused intensity that makes me feel like a specimen pinned under a lens.
"Ninety-two over sixty," he announces. "It’s low, but the trend is upward. You’re compensating." He pulls the cuff off. "I need to check the hand."
He means he needs to touch me again.
"Go ahead."
He pulls the chair close and sits. He lifts my left hand and cradles it gently in both of his. He turns it palm-up. His hands are small compared to mine, his fingers long and pale and steady. They look like they were made for something delicate.
He begins unwinding the heavy gauze. Each layer is darker than the last. The outer white turns to pale pink, then to a deep, crusty rust color. The final layer is stuck fast to the wound. He wets it with saline from a bottle in his bag and works it free with the patience of a saint.
The wound is a neat seam. A black-threaded line running across my palm. Each knot is spaced with a machine’s perfect accuracy. This palm has broken jaws and crushed throats. Now it’s stitched together like a piece of fine upholstery.
I don't know what to do with the sight of it. I've never had anyone in my entire life put this much care and effort into fixing me.
He probes the margins of the wound. His fingertips press along the stitches, testing for excess heat. His touch is light. It’s purely clinical.
And it’s the most unbearable thing I’ve felt all night.
I can't remember the last time someone touched me without trying to harm me. The women I pay for do it with a mechanical, bored detachment. The men I fight do it with raw impact.