Chapter 44
Raffaele
“She made it through surgery.”
Five simple words that rebuild my world from ashes. The surgeon stands before me, still in blood-spattered scrubs, his face etched with the weariness of a man who’s just battled death and won.
I want to grab him, to demand every detail, to know exactly what happened behind those operating room doors, but I force myself to remain still, to listen as he continues.
“We successfully evacuated the hematoma and stopped the bleeding. Her vitals are stable. The next twenty-four hours will be critical, but I’m cautiously optimistic.”
I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours. “When can I see her?”
“She’s in recovery now. Once we move her to the ICU, you can—”
“I need to see her immediately.” It’s not a request.
The surgeon studies me, clearly weighing hospital protocol against the barely contained violence in my voice. He makes the wise choice. “I’ll have a nurse take you to her as soon as she’s settled.”
Colin steps forward. “I’ll handle everything else, boss. You focus on Mrs. Brewer-Russo.”
I nod once, acknowledging his support without taking my eyes off the surgeon. “What are the risks now? What complications should I watch for?”
“With this type of injury, there’s always concern about swelling, infection, and seizures.” The surgeon speaks carefully, measuring each word. “We’ll monitor her closely, but you should be prepared. She may not be the same when she wakes up.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Ice coats my words.
“Your wife could experience memory issues, personality changes, and cognitive difficulties. They’re all possibilities with traumatic brain injuries. We won’t know the extent until she regains consciousness.”
I absorb this information like a physical blow, letting it settle into my bones. The possibility that Alina might wake up different—might not remember me, us, herself—is a new kind of terror I’ve never faced before.
“I don’t care what state she’s in,” I tell him, voice low and dangerous. “She’s mine. I’ll take care of her. Whatever it takes, for however long it takes.”
Before the surgeon can respond, a nurse appears at his side. “We’ve moved her to Room 326. She’s stable enough for one visitor.”
I don’t wait for further permission, following the nurse. Then I think better of it and stride back to the surgeon. “Thank you,” I say, my tone serious. I hold my hand out to him. “You just earned yourself the gratitude of the entire Russo family.”
The surgeon is still gaping when I turn back to watch him before following the nurse through corridors that smell of disinfectant and despair. Each step brings me closer to Alina, to seeing for myself that she’s still breathing, still fighting.
The room is dimly lit when we enter, machines casting an eerie blue glow over the bed. And there she is, my wife, looking impossibly small beneath the hospital sheets. Her head is partially shaved and heavily bandaged, her left arm encased in a pristine white cast.
IV lines snake from her arms, connecting her to bags of fluids and medications. A tube runs from her mouth to a ventilator that breathes for her with mechanical precision.
“The breathing tube is precautionary,” the nurse explains, moving to check the monitors. “We’ll likely remove it when she begins to wake up.”
I barely hear her, all my focus on Alina’s face—pale as death but still, somehow, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Because she’s alive. She’s fighting.
“I need a chair,” I say, not taking my eyes off my wife.
The nurse retrieves one from the corner, positioning it beside the bed before discreetly withdrawing from the room. The moment she’s gone, I sink into the chair and reach for Alina’s right hand, careful not to disturb the IV line taped to her skin.
Her fingers are cool against mine, delicate and still. I wrap my hand around hers, encompassing it completely, willing my warmth into her body.
“I’m here, Alina,” I murmur, my thumb tracing circles on her skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The machines beep steadily, each electronic pulse confirming she’s still with me. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, timed to the ventilator’s rhythm. Her red hair, what remains of it, stands stark against the white pillowcase, like blood on snow.
I’ve killed men with my bare hands. Have tortured information from people who thought they could withstand anything. Have built a reputation on being merciless, unstoppable, a force of nature wearing human skin.
And yet I’ve never felt as powerless as I do now, watching my wife fight a battle I cannot fight for her.
Hours pass in a blur of nurse checks and doctor visits. I don’t move from my position, don’t release her hand, don’t take my eyes off her face for more than seconds at a time.
Colin appears occasionally with coffee I don’t drink, updates I barely acknowledge. The sky outside the window darkens, then lightens again, marking the passage of a night I barely register.
As morning light filters through the blinds, a doctor removes the breathing tube, stating that Alina’s breathing well enough on her own now. It’s a good sign, he tells me. She’s getting stronger.
When her eyelids finally flutter—a movement so slight I might have imagined it—I lean forward, breath catching in my throat.
“Alina?” I whisper, squeezing her hand gently. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter again, then open halfway. Confusion clouds her pale blue eyes as she struggles to focus under the harsh light. She winces faintly, brow tightening, before trying to speak. Only a dry rasp emerges from her throat.
“Don’t try to talk yet,” I tell her, reaching for the cup of ice chips the nurse left. “Here.” I place one against her parched lips.
She accepts it gratefully, the cool moisture reviving her enough to croak, “Raffaele?”
The sound of my name on her lips nearly breaks me. “Yes, Alina. I’m here.”
The door opens, and a nurse steps inside, already watching the monitors. “Good, you’re waking up.” She shines a small penlight briefly into Alina’s eyes. “Alina, can you hear me?”
Alina blinks slowly.
“Good. Can you squeeze my hand, honey?”
Alina’s fingers twitch weakly in the nurse’s grip.
“Perfect.” The nurse checks the monitor again. “Alina, do you know where you are?”
“Hospital,” she whispers hoarsely.
“That’s right. You had surgery, but you’re doing well.” The nurse turns slightly toward me. “Her throat will be sore for a while from the breathing tube. Small sips of water or ice chips only for now.”
She presses a call button into my hand. “If she gets nauseous, confused, or the headache suddenly worsens, press this. Otherwise, let her rest.”
With one last glance at the monitors, she leaves us alone again, which Alina doesn’t seem happy about. Her eyes widen as she lets out a small, pathetic whimper. Fear flashes across her face. She tries to move, to pull away, but her body betrays her, too weak to respond to her panic.
“Don’t,” I say quickly, keeping my voice soft. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. You were hit by a car at the airport. Do you remember?”
She blinks slowly, processing the information. Then she winces before speaking, her voice a fragile whisper. “The car… I was running…”
“From me,” I finish, unable to keep the pain from my voice. “You thought I wanted revenge for Andrea.”
At the mention of his name, tears fill her eyes. Her hand trembles in mine. “I killed him,” she rasps, the words barely audible. “I killed your dad.”
“And I would have killed him myself if you hadn’t,” I tell her fiercely. “He was going to murder you, Alina. I saw the security footage. Everything.”
Confusion clouds her features again. “You… you’re not angry?”
“The only thing I’m angry about is that I wasn’t there to protect you.” I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “That I let him get near you at all. That you felt you had to run from me.”
A tear slips down her cheek. “Why did you come after me?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. How could she not know? How had I failed so completely in showing her what she meant to me?
“Because I love you,” I admit, the words breaking free from deep inside me. “I love you, Alina. Not as property. Not as my wife on paper. I love you. And I should have told you a thousand times before now.”
Her heart monitor speeds up, the electronic beeping marking the acceleration of her pulse. More tears fall, tracking silently down her pale cheeks. “You’re not here to kill me?”
The question guts me, splits me open, and leaves me raw. “No,” I whisper, brushing tears from her skin with my thumb. “Never. I could never hurt you. You are everything to me. Everything.”
She tries to speak again but winces, pain clearly washing over her.
“Don’t push yourself,” I tell her. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
Her eyelids droop, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. But before she surrenders to it, she manages four words that remake my world. “I love you too.”
Simple words. Profound words. Words I never thought I’d hear directed at me, never thought I’d deserve.
As she drifts off, I keep hold of her hand, my thumb continuing its gentle circles on her skin. I talk to her through the night, my voice a low, steady presence in the darkened room.
I tell her about the first time I saw her at the bakery. I confess my fear when she ran from me, my terror when I saw her hit the pavement.
I tell her things I’ve never told anyone; about my childhood under Andrea’s brutal hand, about the boy I once was before the Russo name hardened me into the man I became.
She drifts in and out of consciousness, sometimes responding with a squeeze of her hand or a murmured word, sometimes simply listening in her sleep. The nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting medications, eyeing me with a mixture of wariness and sympathy.
As dawn approaches again, I make her a promise. “When you’re strong enough, we’ll go home. And you get to decide where that is, Mogliettina. It can be Cleveland, or somewhere new. Somewhere that belongs just to us. No ghosts, no debts, no pasts. Whatever you want.”