The lamp on Matteo's desk cast a dim, amber glow, its light pooling across untouched reports scattered in precise, sterile lines.
His fingers hovered over line six of a quarterly statement, but his eyes had long since drifted away.
The words blurred, meaningless, drowned beneath the weight of his thoughts.
He leaned back in the leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. The silence of the study pressed against him, heavy, suffocating. He didn't need to count the days anymore. His body carried the number.
Two weeks.
He hadn't spoken it aloud. Didn't have to. It was etched into every sleepless night, every unanswered prayer, every hollowed breath.
The air in the room was too warm, or maybe it was just too still. His chest constricted. Abruptly, Matteo stood, the chair scraping against the floor, sharp in the quiet. He crossed the study without hesitation, grabbed his keys, and stepped outside.
The night air hit him like a slap—cold, biting, merciless. He welcomed it.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine. The car growled to life, headlights carving a path through the dark streets. He tapped his earpiece.
"Tell the men to stand by," he said, voice clipped, steady in a way that cost him effort. "No one comes with me."
There was a beat of silence on the line before the reply came, low and unquestioning: "Understood."
––
The hospital had become a map imprinted into his bones. Matteo no longer looked at signs; his body carried him forward without thought. His footsteps rang sharp against the polished floor, echoing down the quiet corridor.
But he didn't stop at Felix's room.
Not tonight.
He walked straight to the reception desk, eyes steady, dark with a weight that made the nurse falter.
"I want to speak to Dr. Hensley," he said.
The woman blinked, her fingers tightening on the pen she held. "She's in surgery, sir. You may have to—"
"I'll wait."
His tone left no room for discussion.
And so, he waited.
Thirty minutes bled into forty-five. Each tick of the wall clock sharpened the edge in his chest. At last, Dr. Hensley appeared, removing her cap, exhaustion tugging at her features. She froze when she spotted him.
"Mr. Matteo." Her voice was steady, though her eyes flickered. "You're here late."
Matteo's jaw worked. He didn't sit. Didn't breathe easily. "Three weeks," he said, his voice low, hoarse with restraint. "Still no change. I want answers."
Her brows pulled slightly, but she didn't argue. Instead, she motioned toward a private consultation room. "Come with me."
Inside, the sterile white walls seemed to close in. Matteo stood at the window, staring at the faint reflection of his own expression, sharp lines carved deeper than before. Dr. Hensley sat across from him, flipping through Felix's updated chart.
Finally, she looked up.
"The surgery was successful. No post-op complications. But…" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, "Felix's coma isn't caused by missed damage. It isn't the bullet anymore."
Matteo's head turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Then what is it?"
"Trauma-induced."
The words fell like lead between them.
"Meaning?" His voice carried an edge, not of anger, but of desperation masked in steel.
"His body is stable. His brain is responsive. But his mind…" she exhaled, folding her hands, "is choosing not to wake."
The air tightened. Matteo's chest constricted.
"He's trapped in it?" His tone was sharp, demanding.
She shook her head lightly. "We don't use that word. But yes—his system shut down to protect itself. The shock, the pain, the emotional weight—it forced him into survival mode. Right now, his coma isn't about injury. It's about defense."
Matteo's breath caught in his throat. His jaw flexed, fists clenching at his sides.
"How long?" His voice was rougher now, ragged. "How long does that last?"
"There's no timeline." She didn't soften the truth. "He could wake tomorrow. Or in weeks. Or—"
He cut her off with a hard look, his chest rising, falling too quickly. He didn't want the rest of her answer.
Dr. Hensley stood, her tone gentler this time. "Talk to him. Keep showing up. Sometimes, what the body needs most is a voice it trusts."
He didn't reply.
But after a long silence, he gave the smallest nod. Then he left the room, shoulders squared, though his steps felt heavier than ever.
The office greeted him with sterile order. Reports spread neatly across the glass table. A fresh espresso sat cooling beside his pen.
He tapped it once, twice. Not rhythm. Just sound. Something to keep from hearing the silence pressing against him.
Bianca slipped in quietly, a tablet in hand. "The shipment from Milan cleared customs, but there's a transport delay—"
Matteo's eyes snapped up. "Fix it."
She faltered only a second. "We're contacting the logistics team, but if the weather worsens—"
"I said fix it." His tone was clipped, each syllable sharp enough to cut. "I don't want excuses."
Bianca's jaw tightened, but she lowered her eyes. "Understood."
As the door clicked shut behind her, Matteo leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. The silence surged again, filling every corner. Too loud. Too close.
Abruptly, he pushed away from the desk. The chair rolled back as his hand knocked the espresso cup. It tipped, spilling a thin brown river across a report.
The paper soaked through, the ink bleeding.
He didn't move to clean it.
The next day repeated.
And the one after.
Work blurred—meetings bleeding into numbers, conversations stripped of tone. His staff walked softer, their gazes guarded. Even Bianca, Luca, Sandro… all watched him with quiet caution.
In the boardroom, blueprints were displayed.
"…pivoting the entrance here maximizes flow and avoids bottlenecks—"
"Incompetent," Matteo cut flatly.
The presenter stiffened. "Sir, with respect—"
"You're repeating a failed Marseille model. Do you know how many man-hours that mistake cost us?" His voice was cold, absolute. "Redo it. Better. On my desk by morning."
No one argued.
He left the room.
The villa gave no solace. Its vast walls echoed with silence. The glass of whiskey he poured stayed untouched. The study—once his retreat—was a prison now.
The phone rang. He ignored it.
Messages came. He read them, didn't answer.
But Felix's name—Felix's face—never left his mind. Not once.
Still, he didn't return to the hospital. Not yet.
By dusk, the city blurred into ash outside his car window. He returned to headquarters without thought.
The elevator rose smoothly, depositing him into the high office where the skyline stretched endlessly.
His jacket hit the chair. His sleeves rolled back. Files cracked open.
Shipment routes. Audits. Missing funds. Numbers and lines that asked for nothing but signatures.
He marked, crossed, approved, rejected. Called Bianca. Sent emails. Ignored Dario's fifth message about Felix.
By midnight, the second folder was finished. By two, the third.
The hum of fluorescent lights pressed overhead.
He didn't notice the dawn creeping in.
Work didn't ask questions.
Work didn't lie motionless in a hospital bed.
Work didn't need the words he'd never learned how to say.
So he stayed. Buried. Silent. Pretending numbers could outrun guilt.