DARIO“I know you didn’t approve at first, Miss Santoro,” I say, sitting beside Rosa’s bed.Over the past week, her health has taken a definite upward trajectory. No recovery will ever be miraculous, but watching my woman become more optimistic has been one of the greatest joys of my life. Just last night, when we were lying sweaty and content in bed, she said,“She’s becoming her old self. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but…”We both share that sentiment, not getting our hopes up, but we can’t help it. Our hopes are flying.“Maybe you still don’t,” I say when the frail woman watches me silently. “I wouldn’t blame you. Elena has told me about the fire. I hope that’s okay.”“It was always hers to tell,” she says, “and you can call me Rosa.”I count that as a victory. “Rosa,” I say, “I need you to know I would never hurt your niece. Just the idea of causing her pain makes me sick. I can’t imagine it. All I want is for her to behappy. When this started, I was a cold, miserable bastard, b
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