Chapter 45
Alina
The wheelchair feels like an insult to my dignity, but Raffaele’s hands grip the handles with such fierce protectiveness that I don’t have the heart to argue anymore.
The nurse hovers nearby with discharge papers clutched to her chest, watching as my husband—the man who hasn’t left my side for seven straight days—prepares to take me away from this sterile prison of beeping machines and pitying glances.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly, for what must be the tenth time this morning. Guess I wasn’t done arguing after all.
“You can walk when the doctor says you can walk,” Raffaele replies, his tone brooking no argument. “Or when you can take more than two steps without wobbling. Whichever comes first.”
The vibration of his voice travels from his hands through the metal of the chair and into my body, as if he’s physically staking his claim on every part of me.
My left arm sits useless in a sling, the cast feeling heavier than it should. The bandages around my head are tight and itchy, covering the shaved portion where they drilled into my skull to save my life.
I’ve avoided mirrors since that first glimpse a few days ago. There’s only so much I can process at one time, and my already struggling self-esteem doesn’t need a dose of reality right now.
The elevator doors slide open, and Raffaele maneuvers me inside with careful precision. Then he takes the discharge papers from the nurse, who purses her lips like she’s holding back whatever’s on her mind.
“Remember, Mrs. Brewer-Russo, you’ll need to return for a follow-up in one week,” she says, eyes darting nervously to Raffaele. “And absolutely no air travel until the doctor clears you.”
I nod, immediately regretting the movement as pain lances through my skull. “I know,” I grumble.
Stepping away, she allows the doors to close, and Raffaele hits the button for the first floor. Knowing what’s waiting for me, I reach for the sunglasses hanging around my neck. Raffaele got them for me after my second day here.
They’re specialized glasses designed specifically for headaches and light sensitivity. I’ve practically had them on all the time for the past week. But for some reason, I wanted to make it to the car without them.
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because there’s so little I can control, so this seemed like the hill to die on. How wrong I was. I get them on just in time for the elevator doors to open to the hospital lobby, and the noise hits me like a physical force.
Voices, footsteps, and the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. Everything amplified by the lingering sensitivity of my injured brain. I wince, and Raffaele notices immediately.
“Too much?” he asks quietly, leaning down so only I can hear him.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because what choice do I have? I can’t stay in this hospital forever, and I refuse to be more of a burden than I already am.
He doesn’t believe me—I can tell by the slight tightening of his jaw—but he doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he wheels me toward the exit with determined strides that part the crowd like water around the bow of a ship.
The automatic doors slide open, and for the first time in a week, I feel fresh air on my skin. It’s heavy with tropical humidity, thick with the scent of salt and flowers and life. After days of antiseptic sterility, it’s almost overwhelming.
I close my eyes and breathe it in, feeling my lungs expand with something very close to relief.
“I’ve rented a house nearby,” Raffaele says, breaking into my thoughts as he wheels me toward a waiting SUV. “We can stay there until you’re fully recovered.”
I open my eyes and stare up at him. Even through the sunglasses, I have to squint against the Caribbean sun. “No,” I say firmly. “I want to go back to the island.”
He stops pushing, coming around to crouch in front of me. His sage-green eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I can give him. “Are you sure? After what happened there…”
“I’m sure.” My hand—the good one—reaches for his face, fingers tracing the stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave during his hospital vigil. “If we leave now, I’ll never come back. And I need to face it. I won’t let him win by making me run away again.”
Raffaele’s eyes darken at the mention of his dad, though I haven’t actually said Andrea’s name. I still see the moment of impact sometimes when I close my eyes; the knife sliding into flesh, the look of shock on his face.
But then I remember what came before, Ian’s body crumpling to the floor, Andrea’s hands around my throat, his promises to use my death to break his son.
“If that’s what you want,” Raffaele says finally, though I can tell it’s not what he wants. “But you’ll rest. You’ll follow every doctor’s order. And the second—the very second—you need to leave, we go. No arguments.”
I nod, careful this time to minimize the movement. “Deal.”
The ride to the dock passes in silence, Raffaele’s hand never leaving mine except when necessary. His eyes constantly check on me, as if he expects me to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. Maybe I will. But not today.
When we reach the dock, I see La Fortuna bobbing gently in the water, restored to its pristine state. No trace remains of my desperate flight, my bloodied handprints on the wheel. Raffaele must read something in my expression, because his grip tightens on my hand.
“Colin had it cleaned,” Raffaele explains while he gets the wheelchair, refusing to let me walk even the few feet to the vessel. Then, with a hint of pride, “You did well, you know. Few people could have operated a boat like that under those conditions.”
Guilt gnaws at me as I let him help me into the wheelchair and push me toward the boat where Colin’s waiting. I don’t know what to say to his praise. I was running from him in terror, convinced he would kill me for stabbing his dad. And now he’s praising my boat-handling skills.
He lifts me carefully from the wheelchair, folding it with one hand while supporting me with the other. The strength in him is effortless, controlled, deadly—yet so gentle with me that I could weep from the contradiction of it.
Once on the boat, he settles me on the cushioned seat, arranging pillows behind my back and beneath my broken arm. Every movement is calculated, precise, as if he’s handling something infinitely precious and unbearably fragile.
The journey back to the island passes in a blur of sun and spray and the steady rumble of the engine. Leaning against Raffaele, I drift in and out, lulled by the motion and the painkillers still coursing through my system.
His voice occasionally breaks through, checking on me, offering water, adjusting my position to keep the sun off my bandages.
When we reach the island’s dock, the pain in my head has intensified to a dull throb that beats in time with my pulse. While Colin cuts the engine and secures the boat, Raffaele retrieves the wheelchair.
“No,” I say as he unfolds it. “I want to walk.”
His face hardens. “Alina.”
“Please, Raffaele. I need this.”
“It’s the wheelchair or I carry you,” he states flatly. “Those are your only options.”
I consider fighting him on this, but the pounding in my head and the bone-deep fatigue that’s settled into my body make the decision for me. “Fine,” I mutter, allowing him to lift me into the chair.
As we approach the villa, everything looks exactly as we left it that fateful morning—the white walls gleaming in the sun, the bougainvillea spilling over the terrace railing in a riot of pink. It’s obscene how unchanged it appears from the outside, as if nothing happened here.
As if I didn’t watch a man get shot to death in its kitchen. As if I didn’t kill a man in its kitchen.
Raffaele pushes me through the front door, and I brace myself for what awaits inside. But the kitchen, when we reach it, is unrecognizable. New tiles gleam on the floor—different from the ones that held pools of blood.
The walls have been repainted in a soft cream instead of the stark white I remember. I grasp the wheels of the chair, stopping our progress. Slowly, I push myself to my feet, ignoring Raffaele’s protest.
I need to stand here, to feel the ground beneath me, to reclaim this space that was violated by violence.
The memories flash in my mind. Ian’s body crumpling, Andrea’s hands around my throat, the knife, the blood, the desperate flight. But they’re just memories now, ghosts that can’t touch me in this renovated space that smells of fresh paint and lemon cleaner.
“Alina?” Raffaele’s voice comes from very far away.
The pressure in my head builds suddenly, a wave of dizziness washing over me. The kitchen tilts sideways, the new tiles rushing up to meet me. Then strong arms catch me, gathering me against a solid chest with careful hands that avoid my injuries.
“I’ve got you,” Raffaele murmurs against my hair. “I’ve always got you.”
I’m drowning in morphine, thick and viscous, filling my lungs, my nostrils, even my ears and eyes. The heavy liquid seeps into every orifice.
My hands shake as I try to measure the dose while Mom cries for me to hurry. The syringe almost falls from my hand as the morphine mixes in my bloodstream, poisoning me. But I can’t stop. I need to do this.
The hospice room dissolves around us, replaced by the kitchen where Andrea died, blood pooling beneath both their bodies now merged into one. One body, two heads.
“You promised me,” Mom wails.
“You killed me,” Andrea thunders.
A wave the size of an elephant slams into me, sending me into a sea of morphine and pink cotton balls.
“Help!” I scream, flailing against the current.
But the ruthless sea of morphine batters me about as though I’m nothing more than a gnat.
I jolt awake with a scream caught in my throat, pain exploding through my skull and shooting down my broken arm like lightning.