Chapter 120
ROO’S POV
Two weeks had passed, and the house finally felt quieter. Not completely, Nonna still prowled like a hawk, and Katya remained sowhere in the back of my mind.
But for now, it was night, and the world outside my window was dark and still. I was in my room, sitting in the high-backed leather chair by the window, the estate lights spilling across the floor in fragnted patterns.
The docunts from the eting were stacked neatly on my desk, untouched since the last signatures.
For once, I didn’t feel the itch to micromanage every line, every percentage.
The air slled faintly of polished wood and my aftershave, sharp.
I leaned back, pressing my head into the chair, and let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
The room was silent. I allowed myself to feel the exhaustion creeping in. My legs ached, my body reminded I was still immobile, but my mind... my mind refused to rest.
it’s been weeks. Three weeks to be precised. Three weeks of the sa routine.
Three weeks of that idiot doctor walking in here every morning, tapping her damn clipboard and saying, "Another few days of rest, Mr. Salvatore."
Rest. I’d been resting so much I could practically feel my bones fusing to my wheelchair.
My hand curled into a fist on the armrest. My injury—the one across my back—was almost completely healed, the stitches gone, the pain dull instead of sharp.
I could twist, move, breathe without feeling like soone was cutting into .
And yet... my legs refused to cooperate. Been weeks, and still no strength. Still no control.
Still no walking.
I exhaled through my nose, a slow, controlled breath that did nothing to soften the frustration boiling underneath my skin.
"I’m not a corpse," I gripped the armrests, feeling the familiar anger simring low in my chest.
Being trapped, confined and dependent—every second of it clawed at my sanity. The stupid doctor kept telling nerves "take ti to reconnect."
That I "shouldn’t rush it."
That I was "progressing well." Progressing well my ass.
I stared down at my legs. Strong. Lean. Powerful. Except now they were dead weight.
A reminder of a mont I should’ve seen coming, people I should’ve finished off sooner. I clenched my jaw.
No.
No more waiting. No more patience.
No more sitting still and pretending this was acceptable.
"I’m walking tonight," I said under my breath, pushing my palms against the chair’s arms. My muscles tensed.
Fine. If my body refused to obey, I’d force it.
If the doctor insisted I "take it slow," she could go choke on her clipboard.
I’m Roo Salvatore. I don’t stay down. My fingers tightened around the armrests, breath steadying, focus narrowing to a single point:
Stand.
Even if I had to drag myself across the floor like a wounded animal. Even if I had to tear open every nerve along the way.
Even if it took everything in — I’d walk tonight.
I dug my fingers into the armrests and pushed. My arms strained. My chest tightened. For one split second, my body lifted—just enough for my heart to leap with it.
Then my legs buckled under . I dropped back into the chair with a hard thud.
My jaw clenched.
Again.
I tried a second ti. Pushing harder, teeth grinding, every muscle in my upper body burning with the effort.
This ti I got halfway up.Then gravity ripped down. My shoulder slamd against the edge of the chair before I hit the floor. A flare of pain shot up my side, hot and humiliating.
I stayed there for a mont, breathing hard, palms flat against the cold tile.
Pathetic. A grown man, a Salvatore, lying on the damn floor because his legs had decided to turn into decoration.
I pushed myself upright, gripping the edge of the chair, hauling myself back into the seat with what dignity I could salvage.
Sweat stung my eyes. My pulse hamred. The anger inside cracked wide open. My gaze drifted to the table beside .
To the gun resting there.
Calm. Polished. Reliable.
Everything I wasn’t right now. My hand moved before I even fully thought it through.
Fingers curled around the handle, the weight settling into my palm like an old friend. The frustration in my chest surged violently. Becoming impossible to swallow.
I turned toward the window and fired. The gunshot shattered through the room, through the glass, through the suffocating quiet.
Once. Twice. A third ti. And a couple more, till the bullets got all used.
Each shot punched a small release in the pressure boiling inside . Glass scattered outward into the night air, catching the estate lights on their way down.
The echo of the last bullet faded slowly, swallowed by the dark.
My breathing was rough. Harsh. But steadier. At least the silence wasn’t mocking anymore.
The silence after my failed attempts pressed in on , my breaths ca sharp. My muscles trembled.
My pride felt like it had been peeled open. I reached for the small table beside again, the only thing within arm’s reach that wasn’t mocking and swept it violently to the floor.
The crash was loud. Glass shattered. The lamp burst into pieces. The heavy tal base slamd against the wall with a crack so loud it echoed like the gunshot.
The sound tore through the room, through the hallway. Enough to shake the entire left wing of the house.
My chest heaved, my pulse wild and unsteady.
The pain in my legs blended with fury until I couldn’t tell which hurt more.
But I wasn’t done. I gripped the arms of the chair one more ti, jaw clenched so hard I felt it in my skull.
My shoulders strained, every vein in my neck pulling tight. This ti... this ti my body lifted.
Slow. Shaking. And so fucking agonizing. The pain shot down my back like fire, but I kept going.
My arms locked. My knees wobbled.
And then.....I stood.
Just barely. Just enough for my vision to blur at the edges. But I was up.
A rough and wild breath tore from my chest. Half-laugh, half-rage. I didn’t know which one it was but I didn’t have ti to dwell on it.
Because that’s when my door slamd open with a loud bang. The handle hit the wall.
n flooded the doorway, guns raised, suits sharp and tense. Antonio was in front, eyes blazing.
"Roo?" he snapped, scanning the room, the shattered glass, the overturned table—
and then he saw .
Standing....wobbling...breathing hard but definitely standing. His eyes widened, and I smirk.
In your face old man!
User Comments
0 comments from readers