“Your son sustained extensive trauma to his hands,” he said gently. “We intervened as quickly as possible. With advanced surgery and long-term rehabilitation, there is a chance for recovery. Movement can return.”
My voice came out thin. “W-will he still be able to play?” I asked. “The piano… that was everything to him.”
The doctor hesitated. “One day, perhaps. But not for a long time.”
I nodded, covering my mouth as silent sobs tore through me. All those circled dates on the calendar—competitions, recitals, small proud dreams—flashed through my head and bled into something fragile and uncertain.
The door opened again.
This time, it wasn’t quiet.
A man walked in with easy confidence, tall, smiling like he was fully aware of how dangerous he was. Two massive men flanked him like living walls.
“Vivienne,” he greeted casually, like we were meeting for drinks. “Name’s Gabriel Lambert. I work for Dimitri.”
The doctor disappeared so quickly it would’ve been funny under different circumstances.
Gabriel rested his elbow on the bed rail. “Dimitri took care of the people who hurt your son. Would you like to see what’s left of them?”