As for Uncle Marco, he’d been more angry at Damon than he was Micah, not understanding how his nephew could have fallen for such a ruse. (Although Damon didn’t explicitly say, Micah also suspected that Marco had offered to put a hit out on him.)

But Micah didn’t care if he had. He would gladly put up with Damon’s manipulative and (likely) murderous uncle, and his trio of borderline crazy sisters (sans Sophie), if it meant he got to “put up” with Damon, too.

Micah was the happiest he’d felt in weeks – maybe ever, honestly – just basking in the man’s attention, like a cat in the sun, happy to let the loll of Damon’s husky voice wash over him, the man’s hand on his knee.

Unfortunately, the peace was rudely interrupted by the sound of Micah’s stomach growling loudly. (Though, to be fair, his last meal had been days ago, and it had consisted mostly of vodka.)

“Are you hungry?” Damon asked worriedly, doing a fair impression of a mother hen.

Micah reluctantly dislodged his hand from Damon’s to write on the whiteboard.

Crepes?

A smile pulled at the corner of Damon’s mouth, but he shook his head. “When we go home, I’ll make you a hundred crepes if you want. Hell, I’ll even bake you a cake. But until your throat is healed, soft foods only. I’m sure the hospital has some mashed potatoes or pudding in the kitchen.”

Micah pouted – not even bothering to wonder how the man had known he’d been ordered on a soft foods diet.

Chocolate shake?

Damon snorted. “I’ll see what I can do.”

With visible reluctance, he stood. “I’ll be right back,” he assured. A pause. “Stay here.”

Micah shot him an incredulous look as if to ask, where would I go?

Then Damon was walking through the door, out of sight – but definitely not out of mind. (Or Micah’s heart. Micah had a feeling he’d be there always – for better or worse.)

* * *

The hospital doors were made of heavy metal, to help enforce privacy, so Micah didn’t see Geoffrey – Damon’s driver and one of the bodyguards stationed outside of his hospital room – perk to attention when the man reentered the hallway.

“How’d it go, boss?”

Geoffrey wasn’t one to initiate conversation with his superiors. He knew Damon preferred silence over small talk, and he especially didn’t appreciate unsolicited questions or suffer the fools who asked them. (Unless the fool’s name was Micah.)

But judging by the slight spring in Damon’s step, and the fact that the pale visage the man had been sporting the past week and a half was all but gone, his boss was in the best mood Geoffrey had seen the man in since the incident with Jason Vitali.

It gave him enough confidence to press. “Did he say yes?”