[Eight years ago]
[ZEKE]
Hospitals smell like bleach and bad luck.
I lean back in the shitty vinyl chair outside Room 104, stretching my legs while some poor nurse works on a man I don’t even remember shooting. One of my father's grunts—took a bullet to the thigh during a drop gone wrong. They all do, eventually. That’s the problem with hiring idiots. You end up with casualties and cleanup.
Nicolo stands against the wall near the vending machine, arms crossed, silent. His eyes flick toward me every now and then, the sweat from his neck seeping into his shirt’s collar. He thinks I don’t notice. I do.
Something’s been off with him these past few days. It’s getting almost impossible to ignore now. I’m going to confront him about it, sure thing, but it will have to wait. Now’s not the tim
