Chapter 22
The next day…
St. Raphael’s feels like it’s becoming far too familiar lately as we're back in one of their private rooms. Morning light cuts the blinds into neat ribs across Nico’s bed.
The monitors make their patient little sounds: beep, breathe, live.
I’m restitched and bandaged and pretending not to notice the tug when I move. Stephano notices enough for both of us.
"Sit," he says, pushing a chair closer with his foot; with an exasperated sigh, I do, and he instantly fixes a blanket around me like I’m a fussy cat. He hands me a cup with a lid because I apparently can’t be trusted with open liquids.
"You keep that up," I tell him, settling in, "and I might keep you as my husband."
He grins, crooked and shameless. "Good luck getting rid of me."
He tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear like it’s a tactical adjustment. I let him. It’s absurd how much I like it, his hovering, the way his attention lands and stays. He checks my new bandage like a nurse, gentle and efficient. I should bite him for it, but I don’t.
"How’s the pain?" he asks.
"Marito," I say sweetly, "I’ve had worse hangovers."
He gives me the look, the one that says he’ll take the joke, but file the worry anyway. "Doctor said he should wake any second," he murmurs, tipping his chin toward his brother. "He’s been fighting out of it all morning."
I study Nico. He looks younger asleep, like a man who set his weapons down for once. The new bandage is clean, and the color is back in his cheeks. I tuck my fingers under the sheet and find his wrist. Warm. Steady. I didn’t know I’d been waiting to feel that.
Steph fusses again, smoothing a wrinkle in my blanket that offends only him. "You’re nesting," I say.
"Survival strategy," he says. "If I’m busy, I don’t think about you bleeding out in a warehouse while I was—"
"Stop." I catch his hand. It’s bigger than mine, rougher. I thread our fingers. "We’re here."
He nods once, but his jaw is still working.
We sit with the quiet. The monitors keep counting for us.
He reluctantly releases my hand to refill my water, then takes it back like he changed his mind about being brave.
When he sits again, I study him properly for the first time since we left the warehouse. Something’s… off. No, not off. Changed.
He’s not as playful as before. The edges of him are sharper, cut from some colder metal.
There are lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there yesterday, tension pulled tight enough to carve new shadows across his face.
And his eyes—God—there’s a new chill in them.
A new depth. Something ruthless, simmering just beneath the surface.
"Stephano," I murmur. "You look different."
His gaze flicks to mine, unguarded for one second. "Do I?"
"Yes." I tilt my head, refusing to blink. "Like someone who made a choice and hasn’t forgiven himself for it yet."
Something raw crosses his face, gone as fast as it appears. But I saw it.
"My soul was split in half last night," he says quietly. "Choosing between you and Nico…" He shakes his head once; the movement is tight. "It wasn’t a choice any man survives the same."
My breath stutters. I try to laugh it off, but my chest feels suddenly heavy. "You should’ve gone with Nico and trusted me. I can handle myself."
"I know," he says at once, and there’s something like admiration—real admiration—in his eyes. "I saw that."
Warmth slips through me against my will.
"But," he adds, thumb brushing my knuckles, "I’m still your husband. And that makes me responsible for you."
I should correct him. I should remind him what this marriage is.
Pretend. Strategy. Instead, my pulse jumps, and I'm surprisingly pleased that he chose me last night.
Not for a second do I think this was a macho move because he thought I was more vulnerable than Nico.
No, it's the opposite, and he came for me, anyway. That means something.
"We’re only pretending," I manage, though it comes out softer than intended.
He studies me, long, thoughtful, and terrifyingly sincere. "Are we?" he asks.
My stomach drops and soars at the same time. I don’t answer. I can’t.
Before I can summon a lie, Nico’s lashes twitch again, and all of Stephano’s attention snaps toward him like instinct. It's a tiny movement, barely there, but Steph and I both go still, all that restless care burning into focus.
"Hey," he says, keeping his voice soft, the one he reserves for dead-of-night confessions. "Nico. Little brother. You’re safe."
Nico’s brow tightens. His mouth tries a shape and fails. The beep ticks higher, then evens.
"Take your time," I tell him, stroking his wrist with my thumb. "No one’s chasing you in here."
Stephano huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. "Except her," he says, angling his head at me.
I tilt my chin. "I only chase to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."
"That’s a full-time job," he says.
"Then I expect benefits," I counter.
He leans in and kisses the top of my head like he’s forgotten he’s not supposed to. I let my eyes close for the length of it. My body hums with a traitorous contentment that would mortify past-me. Present-me files it under immediate needs.
Nico’s fingers twitch against mine. His breath changes, deepens, a hitch, a try. His lids lift a fraction, then more. Brown eyes, bleary and confused, find the ceiling, then Steph’s face, then me.
"Ciao, bello," I say gently. "Welcome back."
Steph’s hand tightens around mine, hard enough to be a promise. "Hey," he breathes, his smile breaking open. "It’s me. We’ve got you."
Nico works his mouth. A rasp of sound. "Ste—"
"Don’t talk," I say. "Show-off later. Breathe now."
His gaze drifts, lands on our joined hands, then back to Steph. A tired, genuine relief loosens his eyes. He blinks slowly, like his body finally begins to trust what his eyes tell him.
Steph looks at me, and for once, there’s nothing ironic in it, just gratitude and something scarier. I tip my head toward the bed.
"Go ahead," I whisper. "Fuss over him, too."
He laughs under his breath, leans down, and presses his forehead to Nico’s for a second, an old ritual I pretend not to notice. When he straightens, his eyes are wet, and he doesn’t apologize.
"Good luck getting rid of me," I echo his words from earlier.
He squeezes my hand. "Not trying."
The monitor beeps on. The morning deepens. I let myself lean into the chair and into Steph’s shoulder. For once, the only plan I need is this one: stay, breathe, keep both the men I inexplicably care about on the right side of living.
Nico blinks, finds me, then Steph, and something like a smile drifts across his mouth. "So… you and my brother?"
Stephano beams, "We’re married."
Nico’s brows tip up. "Either I was in a coma longer than I thought, or you work fast."
"I needed his attention, quickly," I smooth the sheet near his wrist. "So I pretended to be his wife. I got his attention."
Steph makes a wounded noise. "Pretended?"
"Don’t get greedy, Marito." I squeeze Stephano's hand. "He’s useful. I might keep him."
Nico huffs a laugh that tugs his vitals half a notch, but not enough to scare the machines. "He always wanted a woman who could stab and do paperwork."
"I don't do paperwork."
"You don't?" Steph fakes horror, and the warmth in his voice rolls down my spine like a secret.
Nico’s smile strengthens. He looks from our linked hands to Steph’s face, and the relief there makes him younger by a decade. "I’m glad you found me," he whispers.
"We’re not losing you again," Steph assures him, and that’s the first prayer I’ve ever heard him say out loud.
The door opens.
An older man who resembles Nico and Steph glides in like he owns the paintings on the walls. "My son!"
Gustave Conti, I presume.
Nico flinches as if a wire snaps inside him. The monitor leaps, his BP spikes, his heart rate slams upward so hard the beeps blur into a scream. The color drains from his face.
"Out," he rasps, then louder, raw. "Get. Out!"
"Easy, Nico," Steph says, already on his feet, hands up, body between them. "Breathe."
Gustave’s expression does a little pantomime, surprise, confusion, and wounded dignity. "What is—"
"Out," I echo, already hitting the call button with my elbow. "Now."
The room floods: two nurses, a resident, and another doctor with a calm voice. "Sir, you need to step outside."
They move around Nico with practiced speed; lines checked, meds prepared, a syringe snapping into the port. Nico thrashes when he sees the needle—panic, not pain.
"Hey," Steph says, close to his ear, the kind of voice that can lead a man out of a burning building. "Look at me. Just me. You’re safe."
Nico’s eyes latch onto him for one heartbeat, then flick past, to Gustave still frozen like a portrait that learned to walk. The monitor pitches higher, a frantic, pleading stutter.
"Sir," the doctor repeats to Gustave, harsher this time. "Out now."
Gustave blinks, performing injured innocence. "I—I came to—"
"Go," I say, and there is nothing kind left in my voice.
When he hesitates a fraction too long, I give him a push toward the door.
When he still doesn't react, I grab my knife and surreptitiously push it into his side, not to hurt him, yet. Just a warning. He glances at me, startled, and finally retreats, hands up, boggling for an audience that isn’t here.
The sedative flows. Nico’s breaths hitch, then lengthen. The monitor slides from red to yellow to something the nurses no longer side-eye. His lashes tremble. The fight leaves his shoulders by slow inches. Steph’s hand stays at his temple, steady as a metronome.
"Good," the doctor murmurs, watching the numbers fall. "That’s it. Let him sleep." She glances at Steph, then at me. "Minimal stimulation. Familiar voices only. Keep it quiet."
"Understood," I say.
They clear out as efficiently as they arrived. The door clicks, soft as a secret. The room is smaller now, just the three of us again, tinged with the aftertaste of panic.
Steph remains standing for a long beat, his jaw is locked, his eyes on Nico’s face like he can glue him together with attention alone. Then he lowers himself back into the chair beside me, elbows on knees, head briefly in his hands. He exhales through his fingers.
"I’ll kill him," he says quietly.
"Later," I answer. "Right now, we guard what we came to keep."
He nods. I catch his sleeve and tug once, a small border collie nudge to keep him from running through walls. He turns his hand, laces our fingers, and squeezes back.
Nico sleeps. The monitor learns a calmer song.
In the glass, I catch a glimpse of us, Steph looking more worn and haggard than any time since I met him, and me with fresh stitches and a new shiner—a pair of sinners sitting vigil like saints.
I lean my shoulder into his again, and he lets his weight rest there, just a little.
"To get my attention, huh?" he whispers without looking away from his brother.
"To get your attention," I say, because I don’t know how to say I’m not leaving without admitting it to myself first.
In the bed, Nico’s mouth shapes something around a dream. It looks like a smile. The morning inches forward. We sit. We breathe. We stay on the right side of living. For now.