“Is he awake?”
“Yes.”
“Can he move?”
“A little.”
“Can he speak?”
“Barely.”
“Who knows?”
“Me.”
“Then listen carefully, Clara Jenkins.” Her voice hardened in a way that made me understand she was absolutely Nicholas Castellano’s daughter. “Do not trust anyone in that hospital. Do not eat anything left near you. Do not take the elevator alone. Do not let a doctor inject him unless you personally check the vial. And if a man named Marco smiles at you, pretend you believe in angels and get out of the room.”
My skin prickled.
“You need to come here.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because my father made sure no one could find me. That includes me finding him.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
The line crackled.
Before I could ask anything else, Sofia said, “Tell him the little saint still has the matchbox.”
Then she hung up.
I stood in the stairwell for a long time, listening to the dead tone.
When I returned to Room 412, Nicholas was awake.
I told him exactly what she had said.
At the words little saint, his expression changed. Pain passed through him, but not physical pain.
“She’s alive,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
His eyes closed.
For the first time, I saw Nicholas Castellano almost break.
Only almost.
Then the door opened.
Marco Castellano walked in carrying flowers.
He was broader than Nicholas, softer around the jaw, with warm brown eyes and a mourning expression so polished it could have been sold in a jewelry store. He wore a charcoal coat over an expensive suit, and his gold watch gleamed under the hospital lights.
I stepped back from the bed too quickly.
Marco noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Clara, isn’t it?” he said.
My name in his mouth felt like a hand around the back of my neck.
“Yes.”
“My brother’s favorite nurse.”
I forced a professional smile. “I didn’t realize he had favorites.”
Marco placed the flowers in a vase that already held fresh white lilies.
“Oh, Nicky always had favorites. He collected loyalty the way other men collected art.” He leaned over Nicholas and kissed his forehead. “Didn’t you, brother?”
Nicholas did not move.
Marco studied him.
The room seemed to narrow around his gaze.
Then he looked at me. “Any changes?”
“No.”
“None?”
“No, sir.”
His smile widened.
Sir had been the right choice. Men like Marco enjoyed small thrones.
He walked around the bed slowly, trailing one finger along the rail. “I hear the monitor acted up last night.”
“Storm interference.”
“Strange. The equipment here is supposed to be the best.”
“It is. The storm wasn’t.”
Marco laughed softly.
