Chương 7
A pair of black heels waited beneath the entry bench.
But the penthouse had lost the quiet rhythm of her presence.
No cabinet closing in the kitchen.
No music from the bathroom.
No question from another room that he pretended not to hear.
For three years he had complained about needing people.
Now he noticed absence like a draft.
Marcus brought him coffee.
Dante looked at the cup.
“It’s nine at night.”
“You asked for coffee.”
“I ask for a lot of things.”
“Yes.”
Marcus started to walk away.
“Sit.”
He paused.
Dante motioned toward the chair across from him.
Marcus sat.
For a minute, they watched traffic.
Dante drank the coffee.
It was terrible.
“Did you know?”
Marcus did not pretend to misunderstand.
“No.”
“Anything?”
“I knew Mrs. Moretti was handling more of the business than you understood.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the answer I have.”
Dante waited.
Marcus rubbed his thumb over a scar on his knuckle.
“I saw Hale come here outside scheduled appointments.”
“How often?”
“Maybe six times.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I assumed you knew.”
“Did I look like I knew?”
“You looked high most nights.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
Marcus continued before he could interrupt.
“I also saw Isabella give Hale an envelope once.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t check?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because wives are allowed to hand doctors envelopes without bodyguards searching them.”
Dante looked at the city again.
“You’re very brave lately.”
Marcus smiled faintly.
“You’re slower.”
Dante gave him a look.
Marcus’s smile disappeared.
Almost.
It was the closest thing to humor either of them had managed in days.
Dante drank more coffee.
“Why stay?”
Marcus frowned.
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Salary.”
Dante waited.
Marcus sighed.
“You want the sentimental answer?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Silence again.
Then Marcus said, “After the accident, you were unbearable.”
“I was injured.”
“You were unbearable before the accident too.”
Dante looked at him.
Marcus stared at the traffic.
“You got worse.”
“You have a point somewhere?”
“I almost quit.”
“When?”
“Second month.”
“What stopped you?”
“Your mother.”
That surprised him.
“She asked me not to.”
“My mother hates you.”
“She hated everyone.”
That was true.
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“She said you were going to drive away anyone willing to tell you the truth. She said if I left, Isabella would be alone with you.”
Dante looked down at his coffee.
His mother had died eighteen months after the crash.
Cancer, fast and ugly.
He had spent most of her final month too sedated to stay awake more than an hour at a time.
The thought arrived without warning.
He had blamed grief.
Medication lived inside that memory now.
He closed his eyes.
Marcus noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
Dante opened his eyes.
“I slept through my mother’s last birthday.”
Marcus did not answer.
“I thought it was the pain medication.”
“Some of it probably was.”
“Isabella knew how much I was taking.”
“Yes.”
“She knew I wanted to be awake.”
“Yes.”
Dante’s hand tightened around the coffee cup.
Marcus watched him.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn every bad moment into evidence.”
Dante looked at him.
Marcus continued.
“You’ll make yourself insane.”
“You suggesting forgiveness?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m suggesting facts.”
Dante set the cup down.
Facts.
He had built a life on them.
Contracts signed.
Money transferred.
Buildings finished.
Promises either kept or violated.
Three years in a wheelchair had forced him to live with things facts could not answer.
Would sensation return?
Would pain stop?
Would his wife still desire him?
Would people pity him when they said they didn’t?
Would he still be himself if no one feared him anymore?
Now he had facts again.
A drug in his blood.
A forged signature.
Eight million dollars.
He wanted them to become a simple shape.
They refused.
Elena arrived the next morning for his first private rehabilitation session.
She had changed the terms before agreeing.
“I’m not your personal physician.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep behaving like money changes the answer.”
“It often does.”
“Not this one.”
She stood at the foot of the therapy table while a physical therapist named Noah Kim adjusted Dante’s legs.
Noah was thirty, cheerful in a way Dante distrusted, and completely unimpressed by him.
“Try to engage the quad.”
“I am.”
“Try harder.”
Dante glared.
Noah touched the muscle above his knee.
“That face doesn’t move your leg.”
“It moves people.”
“I’m not people until four.”
Elena turned away.
Dante heard her laugh.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I’ve hired a comedian.”
“You didn’t hire me,” Noah said. “The hospital did.”
Dante tried again.
The muscle tightened faintly.
Noah stopped joking.
“There.”
Dante looked down.
“Again.”
He tried.
Nothing.
“Again.”
“Rest.”
“Again.”
“No.”
Dante’s voice sharpened.
“Again.”
Noah straightened.
“We are not going to turn this into a punishment ritual.”
“You know me well?”
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me what I’m doing.”
“I know spinal cord rehab.”
“And I know when I can continue.”
Elena stepped between them.
“Noah.”
He looked at her.
“Give us a minute.”
Noah left.
Dante folded his arms.
Elena waited until the door closed.
“What?”
“You think if you suffer enough today, you can get three years back.”
He stared at her.
“That sounds suspiciously like therapy language.”
“I’m a doctor. We steal from everyone.”
He almost smiled.
She did not.
“You can injure yourself.”
“I’ve been injured.”
“Yes. That’s why you don’t get to be stupid.”
He looked away.
Elena lowered her voice.
“Recovery, if you have more of it, will be slow.”
“I know.”
“No, you understand the sentence. That’s different.”
His head turned back.
She continued.
“You moved a toe. You have some muscle activation. You are not getting up tomorrow and walking to the kitchen.”
“I know.”
“You keep looking at the floor like you might.”
That silenced him.
Elena pulled a chair over and sat.
May you like
“Do you want me to tell you what I think?”
“No.”
