I covered my eyes with my left hand.
Blood and tears mingled together, soaking through the sleeve of my ruined dress.
I clenched my teeth, the words grinding out of me, low and raw as a wound.
"I hate you..."
"I hate you so much, Nico Volpe."
I spent the night in the corridor like a wounded animal left to die in the shadows, my fingers wrapped around the pain pump as though it were the only thing tethering me to this world. The hours crawled past in a haze of fluorescent lights and distant footsteps—soldiers walking their rounds, nurses who averted their eyes when they passed the Young Don's discarded wife.
That night, body and soul alike were drowning in agony.
Pain so intense it circled back to numbness, a mercy I hadn't earned.
"I'm sorry, Signora Volpe." Dottore Salvatore Greco's voice was careful, measured—the tone of a man who understood exactly whose wife sat before him, and exactly how little that title meant anymore. "Due to the comminuted fracture in your right hand, combined with the surgical delay, some of the muscle tissue has already necrosed. I'm afraid you won't be able to lift heavy objects in the future."