[Salvo's POV—Hospital Room—Continuation]
I pushed the door and the room smelled like antiseptic and fear. Alfio lay tucked in white, every muscle a tremor, hiccups shaking his ribs like someone was squeezing him from the inside. My chest tightened—the sound of him broke something in me I didn't like to admit.
"What did I do to him?" I muttered, more to the air than to anyone. The words scraped. I took a step forward and peeled the blanket back with a slow, deliberate hand.
"Alfio." The name fell out of me like a question. He flinched so hard his lips went pale; the hiccups hit harder, jagged.
He tried to answer—"S…sir…"—and it came out like a plea.
For a ridiculous second I wanted to pat his head and say the soft things I never learned to give. My hand rose. He shrank and curled, both hands over his face as if I were to slap him, but not a touch. The sight punched breath from me.
. . .
And that's when it hit me.
Was I—was I this cruel to him?
