Three days later, the private hospital room was quiet except for the beeping of monitors.
The room was large and luxurious, with a view of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Fresh flowers sat on the bedside table, their petals still dewy, a gift from someone who probably didn't know what had really happened.
Nicolas lay in the bed, his chest bandaged, his arm in a sling, his face bruised and swollen. His left eye was purple and nearly closed. His lip was split. A bandage covered his forehead where the skin had split open.
He looked like he had been through a war, which, in a way, he had. The bullet had missed his heart by millimeters. The doctors had called it a miracle. Nicolas called it bad luck.
His father, Richard, stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, his face a mask of barely contained fury. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with graying hair and cold blue eyes that had seen too much disappointment. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid.
