Day 11. 3:12 AM. Manhattan General.
Beep. 65 BPM. Dante’s. Strong.
Beep. 168 BPM. Elena’s. Stronger.
“He’s moving his toes,” Dr. Harris said. Stunned. “That’s... that’s not possible. Not 8 days post-trauma.”
“Nothing about him is possible,” I said.
Dante was on the parallel bars. Again. 3 AM. Hospital empty. Except us. Except 40 men guarding every door.
Sweat. Blood. Rage.
He moved his right foot. Two inches.
Then left. Two inches.
Then he collapsed.
Kenji caught him.
“Again,” Dante snarled. From the wheelchair.
“Don,” Kenji said. Soft. “Rest. For her.” Nod at my stomach. 7 weeks, 1 day.
“For her I walk,” Dante said. “So I walk.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Video.
I knew.
KAT.
I opened it.
White room. Medical.
Kieran.
Dante’s son. 18. Brown h
