Chapter 7 - The Broken Wall
Vincent’s gun dropped two inches.
He stared at his son, his breath catching in his throat as if he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer.
"Matteo?" Vincent whispered, his voice trembling.
Matteo pulled himself up against the headboard, his eyes wet with tears, staring at his father with a mix of terror and desperation.
"Don't... hurt... Clara..." Matteo managed to utter, each word requiring monumental effort, his chest heaving with exertion. "She... helps... me..."
Vincent felt his knees go weak. The man who had faced down rival cartels, federal indictments, and street wars without blinking felt his entire world shift off its axis.
He slowly lowered his gun, slipping it back into his shoulder holster. He waved his hand at Luca and the guards.
"Out," Vincent whispered. "All of you. Out."
Luca hesitated, looking at Clara, then nodded to the men. "Clear the hallway. Stay at the doors."
The guards backed out quietly, pulling the broken door shut as best they could.
Vincent stood in the middle of the room, feeling completely stripped of his power, his armor, and his authority. He looked at Clara, then down at his small son who was now clutching Clara’s hand like a lifeline.
"How long?" Vincent asked, his voice barely audible above the storm. "How long has he been able to speak?"
"Three days," Clara said softly, lowering her arms and sitting on the edge of Matteo's bed, gently wrapping her arms around the trembling boy. "He’s been terrified that if he spoke, you'd send me away and go back to filling his room with doctors who treat him like a broken machine."
Vincent stepped closer, sinking slowly onto his knees beside the bed—a position he hadn't taken before any living soul in over twenty years.
"Matteo..." Vincent reached out a shaking hand, resting his palm gently against his son's small knee. "I would never... I was only trying to protect you..."
"You're always angry, Daddy," Matteo whispered, looking down at his father's hand. "You look at me like you're sad because I can't walk."
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The words tore through Vincent’s chest like shrapnel. He closed his eyes, a single hot tear cutting a path down his weathered cheek.
"I'm not sad because of your legs, Matty," Vincent choked out, looking up into his son's eyes. "I'm sad because I couldn't save your mother. I was driving... I was driving the car..."
