Page 5 of Enzo
“Okay,” I rasped.
“That’s my girl.”
I buried my face in Papà’s chest, my head barely reaching his chin, and inhaled his comforting scent. He was our family’s anchor. Mama was strong, of course, but he kept our family from drifting apart.
“I want to volunteer at the hospital,” I said, drawing strength from him. “Like last time.”
“Your classes?—”
I shook my head. “I’m not going back to D’Arc. I can finish remotely. Amara’s more important.”
He nodded. “Very well, then. If that’s what you want. Welcome home, princess.”
The machines hummed steadily around us, a cold, clinical soundtrack as my parents and I struggled to absorb Dr. Gvozden’s words.
Another round of chemotherapy. A desperate search for a liver donor.
A transplant list that Amara had only just been added to.
Papà couldn’t do anything about the chemo. He couldn’t soften the side effects or shorten the endless hours she spent in that chair. But the transplant list? That, he tried to fix. He calledin favors, leaned on his connections, spent money like it meant nothing—anything to push her name to the top.
But it didn’t matter.
Because no matter how much power he had, there were no matches.
Not one.
A sob echoed down the hallway, sharp and raw. I turned toward the sound and saw a mother crumpled on her knees, her grief uncontainable. A lump rose in my throat.
They called this floordepressing, but that word didn’t even begin to cover it. It was a battlefield lined with tiny soldiers: children waging war against cancer. Some I knew by name from the last time I’d volunteered here, offering time, smiles, distraction. I never imagined my sister would be back again to join their ranks.
My gaze drifted toward the glass separating us from Amara’s room. She sat propped up in bed, thin and pale, yet still managing to wear that familiar, infuriatingly brave mask. Just like the rest of us.
But how long could she hold it?
And why her?
It was the question I asked myself daily and screamed at God nightly.
As if feeling the weight of my stare, Amara looked up. For a moment, her expression cracked—just slightly. A flicker of sadness, of resignation, passed between us. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She smiled and waved me in like everything was fine.
I forced my legs to move, stretched a smile across my face, and stepped into the room.
“Hey, sis,” she greeted me, her voice light. “Did Dr. Gvozden say when I can go home?”
“Yeah,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow. They just want to run a few tests first.”
She watched me, eyes the same shade as mine—but older, somehow. Wiser than eleven should allow. Too many kids on this floor wore that same look. And I fucking hated it. Hated how helpless I felt. Hated that I couldn’t make it better.
“Will you stay with me, Pen?”
Tears stung my eyes. I nodded, unable to speak past that pesky lump in my throat.
I wished I knew how to be a better criminal. Because if I did, I would’ve put it all on the line. I’d lie, steal, kill, and even give up my own life if it meant she could keep hers. But if D’Arc had taught me anything, it was this: some lines were etched in blood and legacy and meant never to be crossed. Not without consequences. Not without the kind of repercussions that didn’t only fall on you, but rippled through your family like poison in a well.
In our world, desire was dangerous. And defiance? Deadly.
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