still caked beneath some of Dante's nails. He picked at it, wishing he could get out of that bed and shower, to wash off the filth, to purge some of the memories of what they'd done to him. Yeah, the doctors had let him breathe on his own, but everything else? Out of the question.
He couldn't even get up to go take a piss.
Fucking catheter rammed up his dick.
Granted, getting up in itself seemed impossible, considering he couldn't feel his legs. They still worked, though. He knew, because he could wiggle his toes.
Groaning, the shrink stood and stomped off. "This is pointless."
Dante closed his eyes, relief washing over him once the door slid open. Peace surrounded him for a moment. He relished being alone—alone to wallow in grief—until a soft sigh echoed from nearby, startling him. His heart stalled a beat. He heard the hesitation on the machine. That ignorant hope flowed through him again.
When he opened his eyes, it wasn't his sister's icy blue gaze that greeted him, though. It was Nurse Russo.
She didn't stare at him like everyone else, with the revulsion he'd gotten from so many since waking up. No, her eyes were kind, albeit a little hesitant as they regarded him for the first time in two days. Last time she'd stepped in his room, he'd been indisposed, intubated. Now, he was just a stubborn asshole.
He didn't sense fear in her, although she had to have riddled out by then what kind of man she was dealing with. Even stuck in that bed, Dante had heard the whispers, the staff out in the hallway talking about the thug in room twenty-two, tortured and almost killed by God-knows-who. But whatever, because he deserved it, right? Deserved it for being the kind of man who did the kind of things that invited those kinds of people into his life.
Nurse Russo, though, treated him like he was any other guy.
It felt almost like seeing a friend.
Dante looked away from her as the hope faded, his heart hardening just a little bit more. He tried to shift position in bed, to get comfortable, but nothing he did made much of a difference.
"It's the medication," the nurse said softly, watching him as he glared down at his feet, the sheet twitching as he willed the sons of bitches to move.
Dante's eyes shifted to her. "I don't like it."
His voice was scratchy and strained, the words painful. Side effect of having a tube crammed down your throat, he gathered. It was the first time he'd spoken in around her, and he could sense her surprise. Her dark eyes twinkled.
"Ah, so you're not mute."
Dante shook his head. "Just got nothing to say."
The nurse went back to doing whatever she'd come to do, pressing buttons on the machines, but she wasn't done with the conversation. "I can understand why you don't like the numbness, but it's better than the alternative."
"Which is?"
"Pain."
At the sound of that word, Dante laughed bitterly. He laughed. It didn't feel good, but he did it anyway. "A little pain never hurt anybody."
A soft smile played on the nurse's lips. "You seem to be accustomed to it."
Instinctively, Dante's hand drifted to his chest, the flimsy hospital gown covering the scars from his burns. He didn't make a habit of showing them off to people, but he knew the nurse had seen them. Everyone there probably had.
He evaded mentioning it, brushing off her assumption. Pain, he was used to, but the numbness had to go. "So, what do I have to do to get out of this place? Pay someone? Sign something? Petition a fucking court?"
This time, the nurse laughed. There was no humor in it, either. "Get out of here? I don't think you understand the severity of your injuries."
"Oh, I understand," he said. "I was there when it happened."
Before she could react, another voice cut through the room. "And what, exactly, would 'it' be, Mr. Galante?"
The sound was like sharp claws ripping away at Dante's calm. He knew that nagging voice, the grating, mousy tone, the sarcastic edge that screamed 'look at me, I'm an asshole!' His gaze turned to the doorway, to man clad in a cheap gray suit. He was a small guy, five and a half feet, a hundred pounds soaking wet, middle-aged with deep red hair and a thick moustache covering his lip. The guy, this squeaky little son of a bitch, reminded Dante of a hamster.