Chapter 8 - The Price of a Broken Vow
The emergency room of the Duluth Regional Hospital was bathed in the harsh, buzzing hum of fluorescent bulbs.
Claire sat on a hard plastic chair in the waiting room, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Her clothes were stained with Vincent’s blood. She stared at her knuckles, watching the crimson flakes crack against her pale skin.
Why did he do it?
He had taken a hollow-point bullet straight to the upper chest, an inch below his collarbone. When he fell on the steps, his only words through bloodied lips had been: “Don't cry for me, Claire. Just remember I loved you.”
The double doors swung open, and an exhausted surgeon in blue scrubs stepped into the waiting area.
"Mrs. Moretti?"
Claire stood up slowly. "Yes."
"Your husband is out of surgery. The bullet nicked the subclavian artery, causing massive internal hemorrhaging, and fractured his second rib. In any normal case, a man would have bled out before the paramedics reached the scene. But his vitals stabilized. He’s in the ICU. He’s breathing on his own."
Claire let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Will he survive?"
"He has the constitution of an ox," the doctor said with a faint smile. "He’s asking for you. He refuses to take the sedative until he sees your face."
Claire walked down the sterile hallway, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum. When she pushed open the heavy door to the ICU room, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the silence.
Vincent lay in the narrow hospital bed, pale as alabaster, intravenous tubes running into both arms, a heavy oxygen cannula beneath his nose. When the door opened, his eyes fluttered, locking onto her with an intensity that seemed to defy his physical weakness.
"Claire," he breathed through dry, cracked lips.
She stopped at the foot of his bed, keeping a deliberate distance between them. "Isabella was booked on two counts of attempted first-degree murder. Her bail was denied. She will spend the rest of her life in a state penitentiary."
"Good," Vincent whispered. He reached out a trembling, bruised hand toward her, but his strength failed, and his fingers fell limp against the bedsheet. "Did she hurt you?"
"No," Claire replied. "You took the bullet."
"I would take a thousand of them," Vincent said, a single tear escaping his eye and disappearing into his unkempt beard. "It doesn't make up for what I did. I know that. I know you can never look at me without seeing that hospital room in Vegas. Without seeing that mango cake. Without seeing our baby's ultrasound."
Claire swallowed hard, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. "You're right, Vincent. I can't look at you without remembering."
"I signed the papers," Vincent said quietly.
Claire frowned. "What?"
"Before I flew to Duluth... I signed the divorce decree. It’s with Evelyn Vance. The entire Bellagio trust... sixty percent of my offshore holdings... it’s all transferred into your name. You are free, Claire. You don't have to run anymore. You don't have to hide in the woods."
He turned his face toward the window, looking at the grey Minnesota drizzle.
"I won't bother you again," he choked out, his voice cracking with pure agony. "You deserve a life full of light. Not the darkness I brought into your world."
May you like
Claire stood in silence, watching the rise and fall of his chest. For three years, she had wanted him to feel the depth of her pain. Now, seeing him broken, stripped of his pride, his empire, and his blood, she realized that revenge was not what she needed.
She needed closure.
