Chapter 9 - The Long Vigil
The waiting room of the regional hospital in Bangor, Maine smelled of floor wax, stale coffee, and industrial antiseptic.
It was the exact same smell as St. Bridget’s in Manhattan.
Emma sat hunched over in a hard plastic chair, her clothes covered in Vincent’s dried blood, her fingers locked together in a desperate, silent prayer. Beside her, Leo stood with his back pressed against the wall, his jaw tight, his eyes red from tension. Outside the hospital, six Caruso security vehicles were parked in a defensive perimeter, but Emma didn't care about the mob anymore.
For seven agonizing hours, the surgical team battled to repair Vincent's shattered shoulder, reconstruct his punctured lung, and stop the catastrophic internal hemorrhaging.
Every ticking second felt like an eternity. Emma remembered every cold, cruel word she had thrown at him in the diner. She had wanted him to hurt the way she had hurt. But watching him throw his body over hers without a second’s hesitation, feeling his blood pour over her fingers as he smiled because he had finally protected her—it had shattered the cold stone around her heart.
He was flawed, ruthless, and prideful. But he had chosen death over letting a single hair on her head be harmed.
At 4:00 AM, the double doors of the operating wing swung open.
The surgeon, a tall man with tired gray eyes, pulled off his surgical cap and walked over to Emma.
Emma stood up so fast her vision blurred. ""Doctor? Is he...?""
""He's alive, Mrs. Caruso,"" the surgeon said, letting out a weary breath. ""The bullet missed his aorta by two millimeters. He lost an extraordinary amount of blood, and his body was severely weakened by what appears to be months of severe malnutrition and exhaustion. But he is a fighter. He survived the surgery. We’ve moved him to the ICU.""
Emma’s knees gave out. Leo caught her by the elbows, gently lowering her back into the plastic chair as she buried her face in her hands, weeping with uncontrollable relief.
""Can I see him?"" she asked through her tears.
""Only for a few minutes,"" the doctor said gently. ""He is still under heavy sedation.""
Emma walked into the quiet intensive care room. The rhythmic, steady beep of the heart monitor cut through the silence. Vincent lay pale and motionless beneath the white hospital sheets, surrounded by IV lines, oxygen tubes, and monitors.
She walked slowly to the edge of the bed.
She took his cold, calloused right hand into hers. It was scarred, rough, and trembling faintly.
""You idiot,"" Emma whispered, a tear dropping onto his knuckles. ""You stubborn, arrogant idiot. You didn't have to die to prove you loved me. You just had to show up.""
His fingers twitched faintly.
Slowly, Vincent’s eyelids fluttered open. His dark eyes were cloudy with anesthesia, but the moment they focused on her face, a look of profound, reverent wonder washed over his features.
""Emma..."" he rasped weakly against the oxygen mask.
""I'm here, Vincent,"" she whispered, leaning down until her forehead rested against his temple. ""I'm not running anymore. Rest. Just rest.""
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A single tear rolled from the corner of Vincent’s eye, soaking into the white pillow, as his fingers weakly curled around hers, holding on as if she were the only anchor left in the world.
***
