"48 hours."

"Yeah, but I know you, Vitale, so I'm hoping you'll give them at least half of that. Just because it wasn't fatal doesn't mean it wasn't serious, you know."

I do know, but I say nothing, letting out a resigned sigh as I close my eyes, trying to lie still to ward off any more jolts of pain.

I fight sleep the rest of the night, too paranoid to let my guard down in a place like this, where it's too easy to get away with ending someone's life. All it takes is a slip of the wrong drug and everyone chalks it up to an accident. But there are no accidents, not where I'm concerned.

The nurse comes around, checking my vitals and trying to replace my IV, wanting to push morphine into me, but I send her scrambling away, refusing anything. The pain gets worse as whatever's in my system starts to fade, and with the agony comes the rush of bitter anger.

I'd rather end up in the morgue than the fucking hospital again.

By the time the sun rises outside, dawning a new day, I'm intolerable, unbearable, full of barely restrained fury that seeps into every word I speak, shining from my eyes at anyone who dares step foot in my vicinity.

I need the hell out of this bed.

The hell out of this place.

Out of this life, this fucking situation, this goddamn existence.

In a rash decision, I throw the blanket off and sit up, searing pain stabbing my stomach. I'm about to force myself to my feet when the door opens, voices immediately carrying through. I recognize one right away, a voice that makes the hair on my arm stand on end, every inch of me turning cold.

Blue. It's probably the only color that affects me more than red. Red is full of passion, but blue is what happens when the passion turns cold. I feel nothing—nothing—except for pure hatred, the kind that swells through the body and turns blood to ice, freezing everything inside of me when I'm doused with it. I'm a shell of a man filled with unadulterated indignation, and I make no apologies for it.

When coated in blue, I make no apologies for anything.

I look toward the doorway of the hospital room, catching sight of two men in blue uniforms with their shiny gold badges and tiny little pins bearing their names, the NYPD patches sewn on their scrawny arms. Dead center of the duo is a man wearing a drab gray suit, his voice the one chipping away at me like he's an ice pick and I'm a fucking glacier.

Detective Jameson.

The first time I met the man was in a room just like this, waking up with a broken chest and half a life left to piece together. He drilled me that day, drilled me for answers as to what happened, and I was honest.

I was too broken to keep it bottled in.

I told him Johnny Rita murdered my wife.

He told me he'd get justice.

He never did.

The man lied to me.

I can respect a murderer, and a thief, but I have no respect for someone who lies straight to my face. Say what you mean and mean what you say or don't say anything at all.

Life is too short to have the bullshit sugarcoated.

Detective Jameson strolls into the room, smiling a fake wide smile, his younger partner on his heels. I don't have much experience with Detective Andrews, personally, but he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't force a smile or pretend to be somebody he's not. He's a real prick, and that almost makes me like him.

Almost.

"Mr. Vitale," Detective Jameson says, strolling toward the bed. "Sorry to hear what happened to you."

"I'm sure you are."

"I am. I'm happy to see you're moving around, though. Are you…?" He pauses, theatrically glancing around. "You aren't going somewhere already, are you?"

I don't humor that with a response, straining myself as I settle back into the bed. I can't get up now, not with all of them here. I'll probably fall flat on my face, and I won't give them that satisfaction.

Not to mention I'm wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, and there's no sign of my clothes anywhere.

"Where would I go?" I ask.

"Good question," Jameson says, taking a seat in the black chair, not waiting for an invitation to hang around, while his partner leans against the wall nearby. The uniformed officers linger out in the hallway, not coming any closer. They're just here for back up.

For what? I don't know.

Not like I'd hurt any of them in the middle of a hospital in broad daylight.

No, I'd slip into their houses after nightfall instead.

"We just want to ask you a few questions in regards to the incident that happened last night," the detective continues, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, along with a pen. He flips it open to the first blank page, not looking at me as he asks, "Can you tell me who shot you?"

My response is immediate. "Yes."

Silence swallows the room for a few seconds before the man meets my eyes, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to tell me?"

"No."

His brow furrows. "No?"

"You asked if I could, not if I would," I clarify. "I have no intention of telling you anything."

Andrews chimes in, clearing his throat. "If you're afraid of retaliation—"

A sharp bark of laughter rocks my chest. I grimace, tears stinging my eyes, pain running through my body from the jolt like a bolt of electric striking my veins. I look away from the men, clenching my jaw and closing my eyes to push back the sensation.