"It means nothing." I set the bottle down. Hard. "Not yet."
Will's confusion is written all over his face. He doesn't get it. How could he? He's never had everything stripped away. Never had to rebuild himself from nothing while the whole world watched and waited for him to fail.
I started at two seconds.
Two fucking seconds of standing before my legs gave out. Two seconds that felt like a miracle and a curse at the same time. Because two seconds wasn't walking. Two seconds wasn't leading. Two seconds was just enough to remind me of everything I'd lost.
But two became three. Three became five. Five became ten.
Now fifteen.
Tomorrow I get married.
Tomorrow I wheel myself down an aisle to meet a woman I've never seen.
I grip the wheels of my chair. The rubber is worn smooth from use. From the thousands of times I've pushed myself through these halls. Through this compound. Through this life I never asked for.
I close my eyes.
And I imagine it.
Walking.
Not shuffling. Not stumbling. Not clinging to bars or walls or the arms of men who pity me.
Walking.
Striding into a room and watching people's faces change. Watching the pity drain away. Watching fear replace it. The kind of fear I used to command without thinking.
I imagine walking into Pietro's study and taking the chair that should be mine. The Don's chair. My father's chair.
I imagine walking through enemy territory. Walking into negotiations. Walking out of ambushes.
Walking.
The word echoes in my skull like a heartbeat. Like oxygen. Like the only thing keeping me alive.
I need to walk the way a drowning man needs air. The way a fish on land gasps and thrashes and fights for one more second of life.
I need it.
And I will have it.
Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.
I open my eyes. Will is still standing there. Still watching me with that mixture of awe and confusion.
"Same time tomorrow," I tell him. "After the ceremony."
"You want to rehab on your wedding day?"
"I want to rehab every day." I wheel toward the door. "Until I don't need this chair anymore."
"Mr. Sartori?—"
I stop. Don't turn around.
"The progress you're making," Will says carefully. "It's remarkable. But you need to be patient. Recovery like this takes?—"