Chapter 7 - A Flicker of Life
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The safe house was agonizingly quiet. The storm had passed, leaving behind a thick, suffocating fog that blanketed the surrounding forest.
Elina sat by Matteo’s bedside, gently wiping his face with a warm, damp cloth. Nina was asleep in the adjacent room, taking a much-needed rest.
Mia was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, quietly coloring a picture with crayons.
"Mama," Mia said, not looking up from her drawing. "Mr. Sleeping is thirsty."
Elina paused, looking over at her daughter. "He gets water through his tubes, sweetie. He isn't thirsty."
"He said he wants water," Mia insisted, pointing her yellow crayon at the bed.
Elina’s heart skipped a beat. She looked down at Matteo. His face was still a blank mask, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with the machines. But as she watched, she saw it.
His right index finger twitched.
It wasn't a large movement, just a faint flutter against the white sheets. But it was unmistakable.
"Matteo?" Elina whispered, leaning closer.
His eyelids fluttered. Not a full opening, but a desperate, agonizing struggle against the paralysis holding his body hostage. A low, gravelly groan vibrated deep in his throat.
"Nina!" Elina screamed, jumping up from her chair. "Nina, get in here!"
The nurse burst through the door seconds later, looking disheveled but instantly alert. She rushed to the bedside, pulling a penlight from her pocket and lifting Matteo’s eyelids.
"Pupils are reactive. Extremely reactive," Nina breathed, her professional demeanor cracking with excitement. "He’s fighting the sedation hangover. His brain activity is spiking."
"Is he waking up?" Elina asked, pulling Mia back to give the nurse space.
"Matteo, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand," Nina instructed, placing her fingers into his palm.
For a terrifying ten seconds, nothing happened. Then, slowly, with an agonizing amount of effort, Matteo’s fingers curled inward, gripping the nurse’s hand.
"Call Dante," Nina ordered, looking up at Elina with wide eyes. "Tell him the king is waking up."
Elina grabbed the secure satellite phone from the kitchen counter and dialed the direct line. Dante answered on the first ring.
"He's awake," Elina gasped. "Dante, he squeezed her hand."
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"I am twenty minutes away," Dante’s voice came through the speaker, tight with raw emotion. "Lock the doors. Trust no one."
As Elina hung up the phone, a loud, heavy thud echoed from the front porch. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. They were supposed to be completely hidden, but someone had found the ghost house.
