Chapter 8 - THE WOUNDED KING
I couldn't leave him bleeding in the snow.
Despite every vow I had made to shut him out forever, my nursing instincts and the lingering embers of a decade-long love overrode my anger.
I brought him back to my modest Toronto apartment.
The same apartment where Grace’s urn sat surrounded by white lilies.
Alexander stood awkwardly in the center of the living room, holding a damp towel against his bleeding forearm, looking around the small space with profound reverence.
He saw the lilies.
He saw the mahogany box on the mantelpiece.
His throat tightened. He didn't dare take a step toward it.
“Sit down,” I ordered, pointing toward the kitchen chair.
I grabbed my first-aid kit from the bathroom and knelt beside him, gently cleaning the cut on his arm with antiseptic wipes.
He winced slightly, but his eyes never left my face.
“You should have called the police, Alexander,” I murmured, applying antibiotic ointment.
“The police can’t protect you from Viktor Morena,” Alexander replied quietly.
“Morena is moving in on Chicago because he thinks I’m weak.”
“Are you?” I asked, looking up into his eyes.
“I was,” he admitted without hesitation.
“When Grace died, something inside me broke.”
“I didn't want to be a mafia boss anymore, Emily.”
“I just wanted to wake up from a nightmare where my daughter wasn't waiting for me.”
My hands paused on his arm.
“Then why didn't you leave it all behind?” I whispered.
“Because of you,” he said, his voice dropping into a raw, broken murmur.
“If I walked away from the syndicate without finishing Morena, he would have hunted you down to the ends of the earth.”
“I had to stay in the game just long enough to make sure you were untouchable.”
I finished wrapping the sterile bandage around his arm and stood up.
“You think protecting me from afar makes up for forgetting our daughter on a sidewalk, Alexander?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed grief.
“No,” he answered instantly, looking down at the floorboards.
“Nothing makes up for that.”
“Nothing ever will.”
“Then stop torturing yourself—and stop torturing me,” I said, pointing toward the front door.
“Get your arm checked by a real doctor, sign those divorce papers, and go back to Chicago to fight your own wars.”
Alexander stood up slowly.
May you like
He looked at me for a long, agonizing moment.
Then he turned and walked out into the Canadian night, leaving behind a silence heavier than snow.
