Chapter 6 - The Vigil at St. Jude’s
The waiting room at St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee.
Vincent sat in a hard plastic chair in the corner of the private surgical wing, his tailored suit ruined by blood, mud, and rain. He hadn't changed. He hadn't slept. He sat with his hands clasped between his knees, staring fixedly at the heavy double doors of the intensive care unit.
Behind those doors lay Elena.
According to Dr. Moretti, she had survived the initial trauma, but the concussion was severe, and she had lost a dangerous amount of blood before Sophie had managed to escape and run for help.
The door to the ICU clicked open, and Dr. Moretti stepped out, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He looked around the empty waiting room until his eyes locked onto the most feared man in the city.
Vincent stood up immediately, crossing the room in three strides. "How is she?"
Dr. Moretti let out a weary sigh, offering a small, reassuring smile. "She’s stable, Vincent. She woke up about ten minutes ago. She’s in a lot of pain, and she’s deeply shaken, but the swelling on her brain has gone down, and her vital signs are strong."
The cold knot that had been twisted tight in Vincent’s chest all night finally loosened just a fraction. He let out a slow, heavy breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours.
"Can I see her?" Vincent asked.
"Just for a few minutes," the doctor cautioned, stepping aside. "She needs rest. And... Vincent? Be gentle with her. She’s been through hell tonight."
Vincent nodded slowly and pushed through the doors.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft, rhythmic green glow of the heart monitor and the amber streetlights filtering through the blinds. Elena was lying propped up on pillows, her dark hair spread across the white cotton sheet, a white bandage wrapped neatly around her head. Her face was bruised in shades of purple and yellow, but her eyes were open.
As Vincent walked softly to the side of the bed, her gaze drifted toward him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the medical equipment filled the quiet space between them.
"I'm sorry," Elena whispered, her voice rough and dry. "Your dinner... the restaurant... I ruined everything."
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks. A lump formed in his throat—something he hadn’t felt since he was a frightened boy standing over his father’s grave.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, his large, calloused hand reaching out to gently, hesitantly touch her uninjured fingers.
"You didn't ruin anything, Elena," Vincent said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "You saved a little girl’s life tonight. And someone tried to take yours. That’s not a ruined dinner. That’s an outrage."
Elena managed a weak, sad smile. "Sophie... is she safe?"
"She's safe," Vincent said firmly. "She's with my sister Maria, eating ice cream at three in the morning and watching cartoons. No one will ever touch her. Or you. I give you my word."
May you like
Elena squeezed his hand weakly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You really came for me, didn't you?"
"Always," Vincent said, leaning in just a fraction closer. "Now close your eyes and rest. I’m not going anywhere."
