Chapter 5 - The Awakening of the Ghost
The third week of April brought the first green buds to the oak trees surrounding the Lake Forest estate, but inside the private recovery pavilion, the air remained sterile and still.
Lena opened her eyes.
The transition from the black void of the coma to reality didn't come with a scream; it came with a long, slow breath that tasted faintly of plastic and pure oxygen. The ceiling above her was white plaster, decorated with delicate, hand-carved molding of ivy leaves.
She tried to turn her head, but her neck felt as if it had been packed with wet sand.
"Don't move, cara," a voice said.
It was Isabella. The old woman was sitting in a wheelchair beside the bed, a soft cashmere shawl over her shoulders, her dark eyes bright with a moisture Lena hadn't seen before.
"Mrs... Mrs. Duca," Lena whispered, her throat dry, her voice sounding like sand being scraped across leather. "The... the balcony."
"The balcony is gone, child," Isabella said, her thin hand reaching over the rail to stroke Lena’s forehead, her fingers warm and soft. "The men who came through it are gone too. You are safe. You are in my home."
Lena tried to shift her legs, to find the familiar weight of her feet against the mattress, but nothing happened. Her lower body felt distant, as if it belonged to someone in another room. A sudden, sharp panic flared in her chest, the monitor beside her beginning to emit a rapid, frantic beep-beep-beep.
"My legs," Lena gasped, her fingers clawing at the white sheets. "Mrs. Duca... I can't feel my legs."
The door to the pavilion swung open with a heavy bang.
Marco walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos of the Sicilian old-guard that covered his skin. He looked thinner, the skin beneath his eyes dark with an exhaustion that three weeks of sleep wouldn't fix.
When he saw her eyes open, he stopped. The feared boss of Chicago looked suddenly like a man who had been struck by lightning.
"Call Vance," he ordered Caruso over his shoulder, his voice rough. He crossed the room in three long strides, falling onto his knees beside the bed, his large hands gripping the metal rail. "Carter. Look at me."
Lena looked at him. Her panic was rising, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. "Mr. Duca... my brother... Danny... the bills..."
"Danny is three doors down, Lena," Marco said, his voice dropping into a tone so soft it shocked even his mother. "He’s in the rehab wing. He’s already using the therapeutic pool. The bills are paid. Every bill you will ever have for the rest of your life is paid."
Lena stopped clawing at the sheets. Her brown eyes fixed on his face, searching for the lie, searching for the trick. "Why?"
Marco didn't look away. He let his forehead rest against the cool metal of the bed rail, his shoulders shaking slightly as he took a ragged breath. "Because you took five bullets for my mother. Because you survived. Because... I need you to stay."
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Lena stared at the dark curls of his hair, just inches from her hand. For eleven months, she had thought of this man as a monster who ruled a city of shadows. But looking at him now, on his knees beside her hospital bed, she realized the truth.
The monster was terrified of her leaving.
