Turning Point||Book 2

39: Romano.

The call about Xenia's awakening reverberated in my mind, propelling me into action without hesitation. The drive to the hospital was a blur, adrenaline coursing through my veins, mingling with a cocktail of emotions—anger, relief, and a lingering sense of apprehension.

I was greeted by nurses that showed me the way through corridors I'd never set foot on in the hospital. I finally reached the door to her ward, feeling like a hunted prey creeping through the shadows of a moonless night.

I'd only experienced this feeling a handful of times in my life, but one memory stood out above all others—the moment I confirmed Vilma's death. The realization that she wasn't breathing, that there was no pulse left, had struck me like a fucking blow. There wasn't a single chance for me to say goodbye or apologize for not seeing through my father's deception. My entire body had tingled with a sense of apprehension.

Pausing for a moment to collect myself, I took a deep breath, steeling my resolve. With each step, the tension in my chest dissolved into expectation. This encounter posed to change everything I'd been feeling for the past days.

I pushed open the door and entered the ward, the sterile scent of disinfectant assaulting my senses. Rows of beds lined the room, each occupied by patients in various states of recovery.

My gaze swept across the room until it settled on her. Xenia lay in a bed by the window, her features softened by the evening light filtering through the curtains. Despite her ordeal, she looked serene, almost heavenly.

Approaching her bedside, I felt a pang of anger at the sight of her unusual weak form over the white sheets. I drew closer, then her eyes fluttered open. Our gazes locked. There was a flicker of recognition, followed by a wave of emotions that passed between us—somewhat like a silent acknowledgment of the disturbing maze we found ourselves scurrying through.

"Butterfly," I murmured, my voice barely rising above a whisper, uncertain of how to navigate this reunion. Even months apart didn't carry the same weight as the fear and bitterness of knowing she had been unresponsive for mere days, staggering at the edge of a realm beyond my reach.

She offered a faint frown, her eyes revealing a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, curiosity, and perhaps a touch of apprehension too.

I met her gaze with a blank expression, causing her own to falter. "How are you?"

"Fine," she said, brushing her hair to the side. "Alive."

My initial intention had been to approach her with anger, to unleash my frustration until she understood the seriousness of her drunken actions. But in that moment, faced with her vulnerability, I realized this was an opportunity to strengthen our connection, not to chastise her.

"You could have killed yourself," I stated firmly, taking a step further. "Downing a bottle of vodka like it was your own twisted version of Russian roulette – because why leave life to chance when you can take matters into your own hands with every gulp?"

Shame flashed across her face before giving way to a sense of understanding. She must've recalled something as a result of those words. Russian Roulette. "I didn't intend to die," she responded softly, but with an underlying strength. "I've drunk many times before you came back into my life and managed just fine."

So she was insinuating that I was the problem. I remained rooted in place, close enough to touch her face but refraining from doing so. And as her words sank in, I chose to ignore the implication that any man could have easily filled the void in her drunken escapades while I wasn't in the picture. Crap.

"You gave me quite a scare, you know?" I grunted, the annoyance barely veiled beneath my gruff exterior. "Holding your lifeless body felt like babysitting a ticking time bomb. I had to act fast, playing a dangerous game with every breath you didn't take. It is sick to even think about it, let alone live through that. What the fuck were you thinking?"