Chapter 46
Raffaele
After a week of doing as little as possible on the island, we’re back at the hospital for Alina’s check-up and to get her staples removed.
“Ow,” Alina hisses as Dr. Nilsson removes yet another one.
Each metal clip pinging as it drops into the steel dish beside Alina’s head. I count them silently, my thumb stroking the back of her hand with each removal.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
Her fingers tighten around mine when the doctor hit a sensitive spot, her face remaining carefully neutral though I catch every micro-twitch of pain she tries to hide from me. Nothing escapes my notice when it comes to her.
“You’re doing great, Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” Dr. Nilsson says. His gloved fingers are gentle but efficient as they work along the curved incision where they opened my wife’s skull two weeks ago. “Just a few more, and then we’re done.”
Alina nods minutely, careful not to disturb his work. Her eyes find mine, pale blue against the stark white hospital walls. I hold her gaze, letting her anchor herself to me through the discomfort.
The wound looks better than it did a week ago—less angry, less raw—but seeing it still twists something primal and violent inside me.
“Last one,” he announces, and I feel Alina’s slight flinch as the final staple releases.
She doesn’t make a sound, my strong wife, but I see the relief flood her features when it’s over. The doctor steps back, removing his gloves with practiced efficiency.
“The incision is healing beautifully,” he says, reaching for a small penlight. “Let me check your pupillary response.”
I watch as he shines the light into each of Alina’s eyes, noting how she winces slightly at the brightness despite her effort to hide it. Photosensitivity, still present but improving, according to the notes I’ve been keeping in meticulous detail.
She sleeps better now, making it through most days without the severe headaches that left her crying silently in our bed the first few days.
“Any dizziness in the past forty-eight hours?” the doctor asks, pocketing his light.
“No,” Alina replies. “Not since Tuesday.”
Dr. Nilsson makes a note on his tablet. “And the headaches?”
“Less frequent,” she answers. “Still there, but it’s manageable.”
“She still needs the specialized glasses whenever we go outside,” I add. “And she tires quickly.”
Alina throws me a look that says she wasn’t going to mention that part. I raise an eyebrow in response. We both know I’ll withhold nothing from the medical professionals responsible for her care.
Especially not when I practically forced the doctor to come in here and do the nurse’s job. I’m not going to do that and then withhold details.
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Nilsson says, setting his tablet aside. “Mrs. Brewer-Russo, your recovery is progressing exceptionally well, but I need to emphasize that you’re still in a delicate healing phase. The brain needs time and rest to fully recover from trauma like yours.”
“I understand,” Alina says softly.
“For the next four weeks, you’ll need to continue limiting physical activity.
No heavy lifting with either arm, even though only one is broken.
No strenuous exercise. Minimize screen time and maintain a consistent sleep schedule.
” He glances at me, clearly aware of who’s been enforcing these rules.
“The dizziness should continue to decrease, but if it worsens or if headaches intensify, that’s cause for immediate medical attention. ”
I’ve heard all this before. Memorized it. Created contingency plans for every possible complication. The doctor could save his breath, but I let him continue for Alina’s benefit.
“And now that you’ve seen her, what’s your opinion on traveling?” I ask when he pauses.
Dr. Nilsson’s expression grows more serious as he considers this. As I’ve been in touch with him since Alina told me she wanted to go home, he knows what I’ve planned. His eyes return to Alina.
“I see no reason you can’t go home as long as you’re not flying and you take it slow.”
He already knows I’ve rented a yacht to take us to Florida, then ground transportation the rest of the way. Five days travel time. But in comfortable accommodations with minimal disruption or stress.
“It’ll be slow and as free of stress as possible,” I smirk.
The yacht I’ve chartered is a hundred twenty-foot luxury vessel with stabilizers to minimize motion, a dedicated master suite designed for medical recovery, and every comfort Alina could possibly need.
I’ve hired two doctors and two nurses to accompany us—all vetted personally by both Dr. Nilsson and Colin—who will monitor her around the clock during the journey. And I’ve mapped multiple emergency protocols for immediate medical evacuation at every point of our journey should anything go wrong.
Dr. Nilsson smiles as he retrieves a small packet from a drawer and hands it to me.
“These are her final prescriptions and care instructions. The wound site will need to be cleaned daily, but it can get wet now. Her cast comes off in another three weeks—she’ll need to see an orthopedist in Cleveland for that. ”
I take the packet, already knowing I’ll review it multiple times before we leave, cross-referencing it against the care plan I’ve developed.
“Any questions?” he asks.
Alina fiddles with her diamond choker and shakes her head.
I bought it back from Ray, who was more than happy to help. Now, I owe him a debt. Not money, he got more than enough of that for helping. But he knows he can call if he ever needs anything.
“When can we depart?” I ask.
“Today should be fine.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “It’s been a pleasure taking care of Mrs. Brewer-Russo. She’s a remarkable patient.”
I shake his hand firmly. “Thank you for your care,” I say, meaning it despite the brevity of my words. This man helped save my wife’s life, helped me assemble the medical team that will travel with us. He deserves my gratitude.
“Safe travels home,” he says, nodding to us both before stepping out.
In the fluorescent-lit hallway outside the examination room, Alina carefully adjusts a wide-brimmed straw hat over her healing scalp. Her fingers move with deliberate precision, positioning the brim to shield both her eyes and the visible evidence of her trauma.
The part where they shaved her for surgery is growing back in soft red fuzz, but the incision line remains stark—a curved seam of pink against her pale skin that makes my blood pressure spike every time I see it.
Not because it mars her beauty, but because it reminds me how close I came to losing her.
“These too,” I say, handing her the specialized dark glasses for her photosensitivity.
She slides them on, hiding those pale blue eyes I’ve come to need like oxygen. Even like this—fragile, healing, partially hidden—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. More so now than before, perhaps, because now I know what it means to almost lose her.
“Better?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.
I nod, reaching for her elbow to support her as we begin the slow journey through the hospital corridors. Every step is measured, her movements still hesitant after two weeks of recovery. The doctors say her balance may take time to fully return, another effect of the trauma her brain endured.
“You don’t need to rush,” I murmur when I feel her trying to accelerate her pace. “We have time.”
Her lips press together in that stubborn way I’ve come to recognize. “I’m not an invalid, Raffaele.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re a warrior. But even warriors need time to heal.”
This earns me a small smile, a flash of the woman who stood her ground against Andrea Russo and survived.
We continue through the sterile white maze of corridors, past nursing stations and waiting areas where other patients and families glance at us before quickly looking away. Whether they recognize me or simply sense the danger I carry doesn’t matter—what matters is that they keep their distance.
When we reach the hospital entrance, Alina pauses before the automatic doors slide open to reveal the bright Caribbean day beyond. She turns to me, her face half-shadowed beneath the brim of her hat.
“Take me home, husband.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, sending heat and possession surging through my veins. Home. Husband. Two words that meant nothing to me before her, now carrying the weight of everything I never knew I wanted.
My hand tightens on her elbow, not enough to hurt, just enough to convey that I’ve heard her. That I’ll give her exactly what she needs.
“Yes,” I say simply, guiding her through the doors into the waiting SUV, where Colin has already opened the rear door for us.
The drive to the marina passes in comfortable silence. I watch Alina from the corner of my eye, noting how she tilts her face toward the window, drinking in the island scenery she’s barely seen since the accident.
Her fingers absently trace the edge of her cast, a nervous habit she’s developed during recovery. I place my hand over hers, stilling the motion, linking our fingers together instead.
The marina comes into view, sparkling blue water dotted with vessels of varying sizes. But one stands out; a gleaming white superyacht that dwarfs everything else in the harbor. I feel Alina straighten beside me as she spots it.
“Is that—”
“Ours for the journey,” I confirm, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “The Artemis. One hundred twenty feet of luxury and medical-grade comfort.”
Colin pulls the SUV to a stop at the marina entrance, where four of my security team stand at attention, their eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.
They move into formation as we approach—two ahead, two behind—creating a protective barrier around us as we walk toward the dock.
“Colin secured the entire marina for our departure,” I murmur to Alina. “No civilians within a hundred yards until we’re safely aboard.”
She glances at me, her expression unreadable behind the dark glasses. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” I answer without elaboration. After what happened with Andrea, I’m taking no chances with her safety. Not ever again.
The yacht looms larger as we approach, its sleek lines and imposing presence drawing Alina’s gaze upward. Three decks of pristine white elegance topped with state-of-the-art communications equipment and radar.
The crew stands at attention on the main deck, professionally attired in crisp white uniforms.
“May I?” I ask, gesturing to the boarding ramp.
She nods, understanding my intention. Despite her protests about being treated as an invalid, the narrow gangway presents a challenge for someone still struggling with balance.
I lift her easily into my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carry her aboard. Her good arm wraps around my neck, her face turning into my shoulder momentarily in a gesture of trust that makes my chest tighten.
The yacht’s captain greets us with a respectful nod. “Welcome aboard The Artemis, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer-Russo. We’re ready to depart at your command.”
“Give us five minutes,” I tell him, setting Alina carefully on her feet but keeping a steadying hand at her waist.
I guide her toward the four people waiting near the main salon entrance—four women in conservative attire, their demeanors professional and attentive.
“Alina, this is your medical team for the journey,” I say. “Dr. Ramirez is a neurologist. Dr. Chen specializes in trauma recovery. Nurses Williams and Gómez will alternate shifts to ensure you have twenty-four-hour care.”
The team greets her warmly, but without the excessive familiarity that would grate on my nerves. I’ve vetted them thoroughly—not just their medical credentials, which are impeccable, but their discretion. What happens on this yacht stays on this yacht.
“The master suite has been modified for your comfort and care,” Dr. Ramirez explains to Alina. “We’ll do regular checks, but our goal is to be as unobtrusive as possible while ensuring your safe journey home.”
Home. There’s that word again, the one that carries such weight now.
The engines rumble to life beneath our feet, a subtle vibration that signals our imminent departure. “Would you like to watch as we leave?” I ask Alina.
She nods, and I guide her toward the stern rail where we can observe our departure. Colin positions himself at a respectful distance, his attention divided between watching our perimeter and coordinating with the security team via his earpiece.
Alina’s hand finds mine as the yacht begins to move, water churning white beneath us as we pull away from the dock. Her fingers tighten around mine, and I wonder what she’s thinking as we leave behind the place where she killed for me—not literally, since that was on our island.
What a badass wife I have.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on the receding shoreline. “Even after everything.”
“Even after everything,” I echo.
She sighs deeply. “I think I’d like to return on our anniversary,” she smiles. “It would make a nice tradition.”
I chuckle. “That can be arranged.”
We stand there until we’re surrounded by nothing but the beautiful sea. Just when I’m about to suggest we sit down, Alina looks up at me.
“So, umm… I never asked, but what happened to the…” lowering her voice, she whispers, “… bodies?”
“Ian’s was shipped home to his family,” I reply solemnly. “And Colin took care of Dad’s. I haven’t asked how.”
“Why not?” she asks, confusion coating her words.
I shudder theatrically. “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”
Rolling her eyes, Alina catches Colin’s eyes and waves him over. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” he replies.
“Alina, please,” my wife insists.
“Of course, Mrs. Alina Brewer-Russo,” Colin amends.
Huffing, she looks up at me again, and I just nod, already knowing what she’s going to ask. “What did you do with Andrea’s body?” she murmurs, looking around as though anyone is going to be close enough to overhear.
Colin lets out a deep belly laugh. “Are you sure you want to know?”
She nods.
“Sharks.” That’s all he says before he walks away, still laughing.
Alina looks downright stricken. “B-but…” Shaking her head, she slaps my arm. “I hate admitting it, but you were right. I wish I hadn’t asked.”