Page 119 of Ghost Ribbon

That wasn’t a figure of speech.

I had searched through every diagnosis available, read through every medical paper I could access, and committed to memory every treatment option that existed for heart failure.

Yes, I stalked him now.

I had been stupid enough not to before, and that stupidity would haunt me for the rest of my life - however long or short that turned out to be. I had watched him for a year before I touched him and somehow, in all that watching, I had never once allowed myself to look at the thing that actually mattered.

Cowardice.

Plain, inexcusable cowardice.

I had been afraid of what I would find, so I had found nothing, and that nothing had nearly cost me everything.

Not this time.

This time I gave Ilya one call. “I need everything you can find,” I said. “Medical records. Full history. Birth to present. Every hospital.”

“That’s a new one.”

“Ilya.”

“I heard you.” The humor left his voice. “Name?”

I gave him Marco’s full name. Date of birth. Last known address. School. Everything I had. “It’ll take a few hours,” he said. “Some of these systems are… disagreeable.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

“Alexei?”

“What.”

“Are you okay?”

I didn’t answer that.

Four hours later, I had everything.

Every record. Every scan. Every note scribbled by every physician who had ever examined him, from Italy to America, from childhood to now.

I read all of it.

Twice.

Some parts three times.

Because I had decided, somewhere around 3 AM with my eyes burning and my chest tight, that if Marco’s body was going to betray him, I was going to know exactly how, exactly why, and exactly what could be done about it.

Ignorance was no longer a luxury I could afford.

Not where he was concerned.

I also got him to the best-known specialist in the country.

The appointment was arranged within hours. The doctor had tried to push it to next week. I had politely informed him that next week was going to result with his head off his shoulder.

The appointment was moved to today.

Marco sat on the examination table with his shirt off, looking small and trying very hard to appear unbothered by the fact that he was being looked at by strangers when I knew he hated it. He was naturally insecure and didn’t like too much attention on him.