Chapter 2 - The Wolf Wearing His Face
By morning, he was still. When Dr. Whitfield made rounds, Anthony gave no sign of life beyond the coma everyone expected. Pupils reacted. Vitals stable. Nothing unusual.
"No changes," Dr. Whitfield said, scribbling notes. "Continue supportive care."
The lie sat between us, breathing. Across the room, Dominic watched me from beside the door. I felt his eyes on my wrist and pulled my sleeve lower.
At midnight I came back with two books — the novel, and a blank notebook I'd hidden beneath my sweater.
Anthony opened his eyes before I reached the chair. "Lock?"
"I can't. They'd notice."
"Curtain."
I pulled the privacy curtain halfway, enough to block the camera without looking suspicious. Placed the notebook on his blanket, a pen between his trembling fingers. On the third try, he dragged a crooked line across the page.
One word: WATER.
I raised the bed and held a sponge to his lips. For one brief instant the brutal shape of him softened. Human.
When he opened his eyes again, the softness vanished. "Who comes?"
I told him everything — the rotating guards, the private doctors, the priest who never prayed aloud, the woman in pearl earrings who'd slapped his motionless face once and cried without sound, the heavyset man with the gold watch who called him "brother" and kissed his forehead for the cameras.
At that, his stare sharpened. "Vincent."
"Your brother?"
"Half."
Something in how he said it dropped the temperature in the room.
"He visits every Thursday," I said. "Afternoon."
"What does he do?"
"Talks to you."
"Words."
"He says the families are restless," I admitted. "Says he's holding things together. Says your people need a living Rossi, not a body in a bed."
Anthony closed his eyes. "Snake." No anger in it. Just recognition.
"What happened outside the steakhouse?" I asked.
"I was told the Irish wanted peace. Dinner at neutral ground. My driver was new. The hostess was new. The cameras on the block went blind for four minutes." His jaw tightened. "First shot hit my lung. Second my shoulder. Third my ribs. Fourth my thigh."
"And the fifth?"
His fingers touched the scar near his temple. "That was close. Too close to be luck."
"Who fired?"
"I saw a face reflected in the car window." He turned his head toward me. "Vincent."
"Then why keep you alive?"
"Because death is simple. Coma is useful." He watched me understand it. "As long as I'm technically alive, he can act in my name. He signs nothing permanent. Says he protects my interests. Waits for loyalty to rot. Then pulls the plug with tears in his eyes."
"You need someone outside."
"I have someone." His gaze held mine. "I did call."
He looked at the notebook. At my hands. "No," I said.
"Yes."
"I'm not one of your people."
"That is why."
I stood so fast the chair scraped the floor. "You are insane."
"No. Weak. Temporarily."
"I am a nurse. I do not smuggle messages for crime families."
"You already lied for me."
"That was panic."
"Still counts." His calm made me want to throw the notebook at him. "You talk to coma patients because silence hurts you. You read stories to a man everyone feared because you couldn't stand him being alone. You hide your fear badly but your kindness worse."
"That doesn't mean I'm stupid."
"No. It means you are dangerous to men like Vincent."
He wrote another word on the page. SIENNA. Then a number.
"Who is Sienna?"
"My daughter."
I had seen no daughter. No family photos. Nothing in the papers.
"You have a daughter?"
"Hidden."
"From who?"
"Everyone."
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
"And Vincent?"
"Doesn't know."
"What do you want me to tell her?"
For the first time since waking, fear crossed his face. Not for himself. Worse.
"Tell her the wolf is wearing my face."
"And then?"
"She runs."
At 2:17 a.m., I stood in a stairwell two floors below the private wing, phone shaking in my hand. The number rang once.
A girl answered. She didn't say hello. "Who died?"
"No one," I whispered. "Are you Sienna?"
"Who is this?"
"My name is Grace Miller. I'm a nurse."
Wind on her end. Traffic, maybe.
"Your father told me to say — the wolf is wearing his face."
She inhaled sharply. For three seconds she sounded sixteen. Then she became something else. "Is he awake?"
"Yes."
"Can he move?"
"A little."
"Can he speak?"
"Barely."
"Who knows?"
"Me."
"Then listen carefully, Grace Miller." Her voice hardened until I understood she was absolutely Anthony Rossi'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 Vincent smiles at you, pretend you believe in angels and get out of the room."
"You need to come here."
"I can't. Because my father made sure no one could find me. That includes me finding him."
Before I could ask anything else: "Tell him the little saint still has the matchbox." Then she hung up.
When I got back to Room 412, Anthony was awake. I told him exactly what she'd said. At little saint, pain passed through him — not physical.
"She's alive," he whispered.
Then the door opened.
Vincent Rossi walked in carrying flowers. Broader than Anthony, softer around the jaw, warm brown eyes, a mourning expression polished enough to sell in a jewelry store. Gold watch gleaming under the lights.
I stepped back too quickly. He noticed. "Grace, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"My brother's favorite nurse." He set the flowers in a vase already holding fresh white lilies, leaned over Anthony, kissed his forehead. "Didn't you, brother?"
Anthony didn't move.
"Any changes?" Vincent asked me.
"No, sir."
He smiled. "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."
He stopped beside me, close enough to smell his cologne. "You look tired, Grace."
"Night shifts."
He pulled a small white envelope from his coat. "For your trouble."
"I can't accept gifts."
"It isn't a gift. It's gratitude." He tucked it into my scrub pocket before I could step back, his fingers brushing the fabric deliberately. "Buy something pretty." Then, quieter: "And sleep well."
He left with the same calm he'd brought in.
I ripped the envelope open the second the door shut. Ten thousand dollars in cash. And a photograph — me, in the stairwell, phone pressed to my ear. On the back, in neat black ink: Wrong number, Grace Miller.
My hands went numb.
"He knows," I whispered.
Anthony stared at the photograph, then the door. "No." The certainty in his voice made me turn. "Vincent suspects. But this—" he looked at the handwriting again "—is not Vincent."
The heart monitor beeped. Once. Twice. Then the screen flickered — not from the storm. Green letters crawled across it where his heartbeat should have been.
HELLO, FATHER.
May you like
Anthony stopped breathing. So did I.
The letters vanished. His rhythm returned. From somewhere deep in the hospital walls, the lights went out.
