on, waiting for a miracle. Every time the sliding door to his hospital room opened, hope flooded him. Maybe it was Genna. Maybe she'd shown up. Maybe she'd survived whatever had happened.
What the hell had happened?
He hadn't been brave enough to ask that question, not when everyone around him was pressuring him for their own answers. So many faces popping up in front of him, not a single one pleasant.
No friends. No family.
Even Nurse Russo had been off-duty.
Or maybe she begged to be reassigned to get away from me .
So he endured the interrogations in silence, not uttering a word, staring down at his hands folded in his lap.
His eyes rose toward the psychiatrist, who sat there with a pen and a pad, ready to jot down whatever Dante said and assess whether or not he was out of his fucking mind.
"How are you feeling?" the man repeated, eye contact making him think some sort of progress was being had, but it would be a cold day in Hell when Dante played this game with those people.
Besides, it wouldn't have been smart to answer that.
He felt like ripping someone apart, piece-by-piece.
His gaze drifted back down to his hands.
"If you don't want to start there, we can start elsewhere," the psychiatrist said. "How about you acknowledge you at least understand what I'm saying? All I need is a nod of the head."
Dirt and dried blood was still caked beneath some of Dante's nails. He picked at it, wishing he could get out of that bed and shower, to wash off the filth, to purge some of the memories of what they'd done to him. Yeah, the doctors had let him breathe on his own, but everything else? Out of the question.
He couldn't even get up to go take a piss.
Fucking catheter rammed up his dick.
Granted, getting up in itself seemed impossible, considering he couldn't feel his legs. They still worked, though. He knew, because he could wiggle his toes.
Groaning, the shrink stood and stomped off. "This is pointless."
Dante closed his eyes, relief washing over him once the door slid open. Peace surrounded him for a moment. He relished being alone—alone to wallow in grief—until a soft sigh echoed from nearby, startling him. His heart stalled a beat. He heard the hesitation on the machine. That ignorant hope flowed through him again.
When he opened his eyes, it wasn't his sister's icy blue gaze that greeted him, though. It was Nurse Russo.
She didn't stare at him like everyone else, with the revulsion he'd gotten from so many since waking up. No, her eyes were kind, albeit a little hesitant as they regarded him for the first time in two days. Last time she'd stepped in his room, he'd been indisposed, intubated. Now, he was just a stubborn asshole.
He didn't sense fear in her, although she had to have riddled out by then what kind of man she was dealing with. Even stuck in that bed, Dante had heard the whispers, the staff out in the hallway talking about the thug in room twenty-two, tortured and almost killed by God-knows-who. But whatever , because he deserved it, right? Deserved it for being the kind of man who did the kind of things that invited those kinds of people into his life.
Nurse Russo, though, treated him like he was any other guy.
It felt almost like seeing a friend.
Dante looked away from her as the hope faded, his heart hardening just a little bit more. He tried to shift position in bed, to get comfortable, but nothing he did made much of a difference.
"It's the medication," the nurse said softly, watching him as he glared down at his feet, the sheet twitching as he willed the sons of bitches to move.
Dante's eyes shifted to her. "I don't like it."
His voice was scratchy and strained, the words painful. Side effect of having a tube crammed down your throat, he gathered. It was the first time he'd spoken in around her, and he could sense her surprise. Her dark eyes twinkled.
"Ah, so you're not mute."
Dante shook his head. "Just got nothing to say."
The nurse went back to doing whatever she'd come