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You want to rule beside me? Then I need to know you know how to protect yourself.
I aim, remembering my practice, the memory of Dante in my ear clear as day.
Gut shot. You hit a man there, not a great shot of him making it without a hospital trip.
Definitely a mob princess, going for the kneecaps. You hit there, they can’t come after you, but they can still shoot. Gotta decide if you want to run or finish the job.
And then, I shoot.
And Paulie Carluccio falls to the ground.
FORTY-FOUR
-Lilah-
“He’s asking for you,” the doctor says, walking into the waiting room.
He doesn’t have to call my name, knowing my face and knowing that when he walks into this room, I will inevitably attack him, asking for updates and if I can go back and see my husband.
He’s asking for you.
The most beautiful words I’ve ever heard in my life.
Except, maybe, when Dante says covered in you.
Those words are the ones seared in my brain forever.
The hallway has the absolute worst lighting, the fluorescents pinging off shiny white tile in a way that is supposed to look clean and sanitized but instead always makes me anxious and overwhelmed. I’m walked down the hall, stopping at a different door than the last time they brought me back right after the surgery when he was still sedated, but alive.
Blissfully alive.
“He’s still under heavy medication for the pain and from the surgery,” the doctor says. “He’s mostly saying gibberish. His left side is bandaged and there are plenty of monitors and IVs so it might look scary, but you can rest knowing the worst is over.” I nod, preparing myself as he opens the door and ushers me in.
“I’ll give you two privacy,” he says. “Just hit the nurses’ button if you need anything.”
“Thank you. Another man is down at the cafeteria getting coffee. Can you send him down when he’s back? Big Black man, name is Marco. He’ll want to see Dante as well,” I say, and the nurse who came with the doctor gives me a weird look, like she thinks we’re a throuple or something, but I don’t care.
I give her my mob boss glare, which probably needs some work, raising an eyebrow as if waiting for her response before she turns slightly red and nods.
“Of course, will do,” she says then scurries off.
I smile. Maybe my glare doesn’t need as much work as I thought.
But all of that is gone the moment I walk in and see my husband in the hospital bed, monitors beeping, IV stands all around administering fluids.
His dark hair is a mess, his skin paler then normal, and he looks absolutely ridiculous in the light-blue hospital gown, but he’s there.
He’s alive.
And his eyes are open and pointed at me.
A cry bubbles in my throat, coming out in a croak as I speed his way, the too big sweatshirt and sweatpants Marco bought in the gift shop to get me out of bloody clothes slowing me down, but I don’t care.
Because Dante is lying there and he’s alive and he’s looking at me with love and relief and a part of me knows the worst is behind us.
Not just the surgery, but all of it: the family mess, Carmine, Paulie, the men.
It’s all done.
