50. Nico
CHAPTER 50
NICO
The steady rise and fall of Vlad's chest beneath the thin hospital gown is almost mechanical now, days later, marking the passage of time as I keep vigil at his bedside. Each rhythmic beep of the monitor sends a silent prayer of thanks to a God I'm somehow struggling to believe in. I'm grateful Vlad is alive. Stable, but still so fragile, like the gossamer threads of a spider's web shimmering in moonlight. One careless touch could unravel it all.
And I don't know if that touch is mine or someone else's.
Ivan stopped trying to kick me out. He knows better. I won't leave on my own and I will make a scene if he attempts to remove me forcefully.
So, I keep spending most of my time here, by Vlad's side. His vitals are normal. He could be waking up any second according to his doctor. Or not waking up at all. He could choose to just leave this world quietly, in his comatose sleep. And that's my biggest fear. Not being able to tell him—at least once—how I really feel.
Chaos around me, around the Morelli family is like an abstract painting of rash decisions and dread, the brushstrokes harsh and unforgiving. Roberto, that stupid bastard, got himself caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Rossi was supposed to handle it, grease the right palms, pull the right strings. But the puppet master's hands were apparently "bound by law." At least that's the bullshit he fed me when he called to tell me Roberto will go away for a long time. Of course, being in prison as a regular criminal and as a Morelli are two different things. My cousin will have his own room, a TV, access to the internet, and good food probably cooked by some chef. Chiara will visit him once a week. Maybe even bring some of her own cooking. Roberto will just have to make stupid decisions behind bars.
And then there's Salvatore. The one I'd gladly kill.
The spineless rat actually fled the country, tail tucked firmly between his legs. I almost laughed when I heard the news. Almost. The bitter taste of irony still lingers on my tongue. I made a promise to Chiara, swore on my father's grave that I wouldn't harm a single hair on her precious baby boy's head. But every fiber of my being yearns to wrap my hands around his scrawny neck and squeeze until his lying tongue swells and his betraying eyes bulge.
It would be so easy.
Too easy.
But with Salvatore conveniently removed from the chessboard, I can keep my word to Chiara without having to stain my hands with his blood. Poetic, in a twisted sort of way.
Nothing about this life is ever simple. Even when the Universe throws us a bone, it's usually just a distraction before the next mouthful of teeth.
That's why I've been wondering if there's a price I have to pay for having both my cousins ejected from my future.
My gaze drifts to Vlad, my only beacon in this shitstorm.
I'd weather a thousand tempests for him. I know I would as long as he comes back to me.
But for now, I'm waiting, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and sounds of the medical equipment. Each beep and whir are a reminder of the fragile boundary between life and death I so desperately want to control. I just don't know how. Don't know what more I can do to make him hear me, to make him realize I'm here waiting for him to wake up.
My phone vibrates insistently, Costa's name flashing on the screen. I silence it without a second glance. He means well, but his concerns are trivial compared to the gravity of this vigil. Let the suits wait, let the empire teeter on its foundations. None of it matters, not when Vlad is hovering between worlds, his existence reduced to the dance of lines on a monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The rhythm—steady, faithful—suddenly stumbles into urgency.
A door swings open with a soft thud, footsteps approach, murmured exchanges fill the room.
I jolt awake, dragged from my sleep by the noise.
No, it's not a dream
Figures cluster near Vlad's bed. I blink in an attempt to clear my vision.
My heart lodges itself high in my throat, pushing dread through my veins.
"Get Dr. Stein," a female voice calls.
I rise up from my chair, needing to see what's going on, but immediately get shot down by another nurse. "It's best you step out of the room for now, Mr. Morelli." She hustles me toward the door.
I'm terrified. I don't know what's going on but as a small hand nudges me into the hallway, I catch a glance of him—Vlad. It's just a fraction of a second, his eyes confused but open.
Fuck.
Relief washes over me. I lean against the wall and watch a whirlwind of scrubs and stethoscopes moving past me and into the room. I pull out my phone and dial Ivan's number. "He's awake. Get here now." My voice is steady, but my heart races beneath the veneer of calm.
All I can do is wait. Wait and let the medical staff do their job. The door would open occasionally and a person would leave and come back later. And during those moments, when I look inside, I see nurses and doctors swarm the bed, checking vitals, shining lights, asking questions. They speak in medical jargon, a foreign language of numbers and acronyms, that floats over to me in fragments.
I don't understand most of it, but my heart suddenly swells.
Eventually, the neurological tests conclude, and everyone except one nurse file out.
"How is he?" I corner Dr. Stein just outside the room, needing to know if there are things I better be aware of in advance. "Can I see him now?"
Dr. Stein pauses mid-step, turning to me. "He's a very lucky man." His voice has the calm rhythm of soft jazz in an empty coffee shop at midnight, soothing yet tired. "Disoriented and weak for a bit, he'll be—but his mind is all there. No loss of cognitive function was detected."
"Yes. But I wouldn't overwhelm him too much." And then he's walking away.
I linger in the hallway, listening to the steady beep in the room. It feels almost surreal after all this time. Finally, with a deep breath, I yank the door open and step inside.
Vlad's eyes meet mine. Recognition sparkles in them.
I drink in the sight of him, slim and pale and vulnerable. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, to reassure myself that this isn't just another cruel dream.
"Vlad," I whisper, simply wanting to say his name out loud, wanting to be certain this is real, he is real.
He frowns. A kaleidoscope of emotions plays across his face—confusion, relief, fear, and something deeper, something primal. I don't even think he understands it himself yet but I do. I always did. It's that one thing that drew me to him that night in California.
I cross the room and pull up a chair to his bedside, then settle down. I can't find words to say all I need to say. Instead, I rest my hand gently atop of his, a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.
"Nico..." His voice is raspy, each syllable a struggle from misuse. "What... are you... doing here?"
I open my mouth to respond, but he grips my hand with surprising strength, his eyes wide and wild. "You can't... be here. He'll... kill you."
The heart monitor spikes, a staccato rhythm of panic. I squeeze his hand in response, my thumb tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Shh, Vlad. It's okay."
"Uncle—"
"He's gone," I interrupt him.
Vlad starts shaking his head, his breathing suddenly labored. "No... you don't understand… He'll kill you…"
I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. "Vlad, listen to me. The man, the one who knew about the order… He's dead."
Vlad searches my eyes as if seeking the truth behind my words. I hold his gaze, pouring every ounce of reassurance into that look. Slowly, the tension drains from his body, and he seemingly relaxes.
The beeping of the heart monitor fades into the background, my own heartbeat pounding louder in my ears. I swallow hard, feeling the weight of everything that has happened since the last time I saw him.
"Is that why you orchestrated that scene at the warehouse?" I ask.
Silence stretches taut, thickening the air around us. Vlad's gaze remains locked on mine, but there's no response. "I don't know what you mean," he mutters.
"Vlad," I push, my tone firm but gentle. "I found the shipment in my own warehouse. Rinaldo confessed they took the drugs to Tony the night before the transfer."
He frowns. "I… don't know what you're talking about."
"You can fool anyone but me."
"Stop." Vlad's grip on my hand tightens again. "Just—" He draws a shaky breath, struggling to piece together the fragments of reality that feel too chaotic to grasp. "I'm serious. I don't know anything."
"Everything is under control, Vlad." My voice drops an octave. "We have nothing to fear anymore. Not from anyone. You did what you thought was right to protect me, didn't you?"
He doesn't speak for a long time.
" Caro ," I say. "I will take care of you from now on."
As his gaze softens, I feel something shift between us. An acknowledgment, perhaps. A shared understanding. This world we inhabit—filled with blood and betrayal—has given us a chance again. A chance to be together.
And I don't plan on wasting it.