Chapter 6 - The Boy with His Father’s Eyes
By noon, Milo had been moved back to Room 204, though the terrifying array of machines surrounding his bed had been reduced to a single rhythmic monitor and a low-flow oxygen cannula resting beneath his small nose.
I sat in the chair beside the bed, holding his small, limp hand. The fever had broken around eleven, leaving his skin cool and damp against my fingertips.
The door clicked open softly.
Nico stepped into the room. He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint, jagged scars from old knife wounds—reminders of the life I had tried so hard to run away from.
He pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the bed, sitting down with careful, deliberate movements so as not to disturb the sleeping boy.
For a long time, neither of us spoke. The only sound in the room was the steady beep-beep of the monitor and Milo’s soft, even breathing.
"He has your eyes," Nico whispered, his gaze tracing the gentle curve of Milo’s dark eyelashes.
"He has your stubbornness, too," I replied softly. "Refused to take his fever reducer yesterday until I promised to read him Goodnight Moon three times in a row."
Nico let out a low, breathy chuckle—a sound so rare and genuine that it felt like witnessing a miracle.
"What's his favorite food?" Nico asked.
"Blueberry pancakes with way too much syrup. And he hates green vegetables with a passion that defies logic."
"Good," Nico nodded, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. "A proper Italian boy, then."
I looked across the narrow hospital bed at the man who ruled half of America from the shadows, the man who had broken my heart into a thousand pieces and then spent two years hiding in the dark to keep us safe from the wolves.
"What happens now, Nico?" I asked, the question hanging heavy in the sterile air. "The surgeon says he’ll be here for two weeks. And after that?"
Nico looked up from Milo, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch.
"After that," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument, "neither of you is ever going back to that walk-up above the bakery."
"Nico, no—"
"I didn't spend two years wondering if my son was eating enough vegetables, or if he had enough blankets in the winter, only to let you crawl back into a city slum," he interrupted, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You are coming home. Both of you. To the estate."
"The estate is a target," I reminded him fiercely. "Your enemies—"
"My enemies are currently wishing they had never been born," Nico cut me off, a chilling, razor-sharp edge returning to his voice. "By sunset today, every capo, rival boss, and syndicate rat who ever thought about targeting my family will receive a very clear demonstration of what happens when they cross a line that cannot be uncrossed. The house will be locked down. Guarded twenty-four hours a day. You will have everything you need."
"And us?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "What about us, Nico?"
May you like
He reached across the narrow mattress, his large, calloused hand covering mine. His skin was warm, steady, and entirely sure of itself.
"We start over," he said quietly. "If you'll let me."
