Chapter 10
Rico
I don’t sleep—not in the way most people do, and definitely not now.
Even with the drugs still in my system and my body barely holding itself together, my mind refuses to shut down completely.
Instead, I drift in that in-between space where awareness lingers just beneath the surface, catching fragments of sound, movement, and conversation, piecing them together slowly while my body does what little it can to recover.
It’s slower than I’m used to, and that’s the part I don’t like.
Not the pain, not the weakness, not even the vulnerability—just the delay.
My mind has always been faster than everything around me, always a step ahead, always calculating before anyone else realizes there’s something to calculate.
Now, everything feels dulled, like I’m working through resistance I can’t quite shake.
But even slowed down, I’m still aware, still hearing and seeing everything around me, and most importantly, still thinking through every detail despite the resistance my body is putting between me and the clarity I’m accustomed to.
Footsteps approach, light and measured, cutting through the quiet of the room with a rhythm I’m starting to recognize.
Not the guards. Not Dario. Hers. Olivia.
I don’t open my eyes right away because there’s no advantage in announcing awareness too soon.
People reveal more when they think you’re not fully there, when they assume you’re not listening, not watching, not understanding.
So I stay still, letting her move freely, letting her settle into the space like she owns it.
Her presence shifts the air slightly—not dramatically, not in a way most would notice—but enough for me to register the focus she carries with her.
A second later, I feel her hand at my wrist, checking my pulse with a precision that tells me she’s already several steps ahead in whatever she’s assessing.
It’s different from the urgency she carried earlier, when she was holding the line between life and death; now there is something steadier in her movements, something measured and deliberate that tells me she no longer expects me to disappear beneath her hands at any moment.
I open my eyes slowly, watching the exact moment she notices. Of course she does. There’s no delay, no surprise—just immediate recognition.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she says without looking at me, her fingers still at my wrist, counting, tracking, analyzing.
“Define resting,” I murmur, my voice rough but steadier than before, stronger in a way that tells me I’m clawing my way back faster than expected.
Her gaze lifts to mine, unimpressed and completely unaffected by the fact that I’m conscious. “Not talking. Not moving. Not making this harder than it already is,” she replies, her tone flat and direct, like she’s already decided I’m going to do exactly the opposite.
I almost smile, but the effort isn’t worth the cost. “Then I’m failing,” I say, watching her closely.
“That’s not new,” she returns without missing a beat, her attention already shifting back to adjusting something at my side.
There it is again—that edge in her tone.
Not quite humor, not quite irritation, but something in between that makes the exchange feel sharper than it should.
Most people soften around situations like this.
They adjust their tone, their words, their behavior.
She doesn’t. She stays exactly where she is—focused, grounded, and completely unwilling to play into anything that doesn’t serve a purpose.
She steps back slightly, crossing her arms as she looks at me fully now. “The rooms are ready,” she says, her tone shifting just enough to signal that we’re moving into something more serious. “I just came from them.”
I study her expression carefully, noting the subtle tension in her posture, the way her mind is still working through whatever she saw. “What’s the verdict?” I ask.
“It’s not a hospital,” she replies, exhaling slightly as if she’s still processing the limitations. “But it’s better than I expected. Whoever set it up knew enough to make it functional, even if it’s not ideal.”
“Dario doesn’t do halfway,” I say, my voice quieter now, more certain.
“No,” she agrees, her gaze holding mine for a moment longer than necessary. “He doesn’t.”
There’s something behind that—something she’s already figured out about him, about this place, about the way things work here. Good. That means she’s adapting.
“Then we proceed,” I say, because there’s no other option worth considering.
She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing just enough to show she’s evaluating that statement. “You say that like you’re part of the decision.”
“I am,” I answer simply, because it’s the truth.
Her brow lifts slightly, her skepticism obvious. “You’re barely conscious.”
“Still counts,” I reply, not bothering to elaborate.
“That’s not how medicine works,” she says, her tone tightening just slightly.
“No,” I agree, holding her gaze steadily. “But that’s how this does.”
She studies me for a moment longer, weighing whether it’s worth pushing back on that. Then she lets it go, which tells me she’s already learning when to fight and when to conserve energy. Smart.
“You’re going into surgery as soon as everything is in place,” she says instead, shifting back to what matters. “And you need to understand that even then, you could still die.”
There’s no softness in the delivery, no attempt to ease the reality of it. Just truth.
“So could you,” I reply.
That gets a reaction, small and controlled but real enough for me to catch the slight narrowing of her eyes and the sharper flicker that moves behind them.
“That’s not the same thing,” she says.
“Isn’t it?” I ask, watching her more closely now, because this is where people reveal something real—when the conversation shifts just enough to touch something they weren’t expecting.
“You’re the one on the table,” she says, her voice steady.
“And you’re the one they took to keep me alive,” I counter. “That puts you in a different kind of danger.”
Silence settles between us, heavier and more deliberate than before, because the conversation has shifted away from my injuries and toward the danger surrounding her, and neither of us seems willing to pretend that she isn't standing in the middle of it simply because she refuses to acknowledge it.
She looks away first, not out of weakness, but choice. “I’m focused on my patient,” she says.
“You’re focused on control,” I correct quietly.
That makes her still, just for a second, before she turns back to me, her expression sharper now. “That’s how people survive,” she says.
There it is—not another deflection or carefully constructed surface-level answer, but something closer to the truth than she has given me before.
“Same principle,” I reply.
Her gaze lingers on me again, longer this time, reassessing, recalibrating. Because now she’s seeing something different—not just the patient, not just the situation, but the person behind it.
“Why do you act like you don’t care?” she asks suddenly.
I study her for a moment before answering. “About what?”
“This,” she says, gesturing slightly. “What happened. What’s happening now.”
I understand it, and perhaps I expected something like this eventually, because reacting emotionally has never changed an outcome, but none of that is something I bother telling her.
“Because caring doesn’t fix the problem,” I say simply.
Her jaw tightens slightly at that, a subtle reaction that tells me she doesn’t agree—even if she understands.
“That’s not how most people work,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
She steps closer again, her focus shifting back to her work, but the conversation doesn’t end—it just evolves.
“You were analyzing it earlier,” she says. “Even half-conscious.”
“Analyzing what?” I ask, though I already know.
“The attack,” she replies. “You were trying to figure it out.”
I let the silence stretch for a moment, deciding how much to give her. “Habit,” I say finally.
“That’s more than habit.”
She’s pushing carefully, deliberately, and I let her.
“It wasn’t random,” I say.
Her expression doesn’t change, but I see the shift in her eyes. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because it was too clean,” I explain, my voice steady despite the strain it costs me. “Too controlled. Whoever did it knew exactly where to be and when to move.”
She processes that quickly, her mind working through the implications just as fast as mine did.
“This is internal,” she says quietly.
“Partially,” I correct. “Or at least assisted.”
“Betrayal,” she says.
“Yes.”
The word settles between us, heavy and unavoidable.
“That complicates things,” she says.
I almost laugh, but the effort isn’t worth it. “Everything about this is complicated.”
She studies me again, something different in her expression now. “You’re not worried?”
I meet her gaze evenly. “I’ll deal with it.”
Not if. Not maybe. Not later.
Just fact.
Something shifts in her expression again—recognition, maybe understanding.
“To deal with anything,” she says finally, her tone firm again, grounded, “you have to survive this first.”
Fair.
I let my eyes close, not fully slipping under, just conserving energy the way I need to now.
“Working on it,” I murmur.
I feel her move again, adjusting something, checking something, always maintaining control over what she can. And for now, that’s enough.
Because her job is simple: keep me alive long enough to survive what comes next. Mine is equally simple, although far more personal—to figure out who tried to kill me and make certain that, when I finally find them, they understand exactly what that mistake cost them.