Page 112 of Ruthless Scar
Gia’s spine straightens. “That’s Mila.”
I follow her down the corridor. Gia moves fast but not running. Measured. Urgent but not emergency. She’s done this before.
The door to the room at the end is open. Nico is already inside. Lorenzo’s brother, who should be asleep two floors up, is sitting on the edge of the chair beside the bed. Elbows on his knees. Hands open, palms up. Not touching. Not reaching. Just present. His hair is messy from sleep. T-shirt and sweatpants, bare feet on the cold tile. His face holds none of the easy charm I’ve come to expect from him.
The girl in the bed is pressed against the wall. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her shins, eyes wild and fixed on Nico’s face. She’s small. Younger than Sofia, maybe, or just smaller from years of not being fed enough. Her hair is dark and matted and her skin is too pale for anyone who’s seen sunlight in this decade.
Nico is speaking to her. Low. Steady. In Russian. I don’t speak Russian. But I recognize the rhythm. Patient. Repetitive. The same phrases looped like a lullaby. Each one in a voice sogentle it doesn’t sound like the man who makes everyone laugh at Sunday dinner.
Mila. That’s the name Gia uses. We don’t know her surname. She won’t give it. She won’t give anything except aggression to anyone who gets close. Anyone except Nico.
I watch from the hall. Gia stands beside me, arms crossed, gaze tracking Mila’s vitals from across the room. Heart rate by the pulse in her throat. Respiratory rate by the rise and fall of her shoulders. Gia doesn’t need machines when she can read a body like code.
“She’s Eastern European,” Gia murmurs. “I think Ukrainian, maybe Moldovan. She won’t confirm. Nico’s Russian is the only language she responds to.”
“When did he learn Russian?”
Gia’s mouth presses flat. Her expression tightens. Releases. “I’ve been asking him that since he was sixteen.”
Nico’s voice continues. The same low cadence. Mila’s grip on her own arms loosens by a fraction. Her breathing slows from gasps to a cadence that almost resembles normalcy. Her eyes never leave his face.
“She only speaks to him?” I ask.
“She doesn’t speak to anyone. But she tolerates him. That’s more than she’ll give to anyone else. Yesterday Marco walked past her door and she threw a water glass. Caught him above the ear.”
“Is Marco okay?”
“Four stitches. He’ll survive. He’s more embarrassed than hurt.”
In the room, Nico shifts. He starts to stand.
Mila screams. The sound tears through the medical wing like a blade. Not a word. Not a plea. Pure terror compressed into a frequency that makes my teeth ache and my vision blur. She launches off the bed toward Nico, not attacking but grabbing,her fists closing on his shirt with a grip that turns her knuckles white.
Nico freezes. His arms hover at his sides. Not wrapping around her. Not pushing her away.
He changes. Not the charming brother. Not the diplomat. A man who looks like he’s been hit in the chest.
He sits back down. Mila doesn’t let go of his shirt. She presses her forehead against his shoulder, still gripping the fabric, and the screaming subsides into hard, ragged breathing. Nico’s hand lifts. Stops. His fingers hover over her hair without touching.
He looks at Gia.
“You can stay,” Gia says. Professional. Gentle. The doctor and the twin speaking at once. “Just sit with her. Don’t push.”
He nods. Settles back into the chair. Mila doesn’t release his shirt. Her breathing evens out. Her body goes heavy against his side, exhaustion winning the fight that terror started.
Gia pulls me back into the hallway and closes the door to a crack.
“She hasn’t let anyone that close since the rescue,” Gia says. “Nico’s the only one she doesn’t attack on sight. I don’t know why. Something happened during the raid that made her trust him, and he won’t tell me.”
“Does she sleep?”
“In stretches. Two, three hours. She wakes up fighting. The staff knows to give her space and let her come down on her own. Nico started sitting outside her door at night. She screams less when she knows he’s there.”
I look at the crack of light from Mila’s room. At the shadow of Nico’s shoulder, motionless, holding the position for a girl who has her fists wound into his shirt.
Gia presses her thumbs against her temples. The gesture is too tired for someone her age. She’s twenty-eight and she moves like she’s been doing this for decades.
“The other girls from the rescue are at the Casa Lucia clinic in Treme,” she says, switching back to her clinical mode. “Better equipped for long-term care. Counseling staff on rotation. Sofia and Mila are here because they need closer monitoring.”
