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Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .
What the fuck?
Carmine pried his eyes open, squinting from the harsh fluorescent lights. The beeping echoed through the small, secluded room, coming from a cardiac monitor to his left. The monitor spiked with each beep, coinciding with each heartbeat in his chest. It was strong, steady. He stared at it, following the wires straight to his body, surveying the IVs and tubes connected to his skin. He lay in an uncomfortable hospital bed, draped in a flimsy gown and covered with a white sheet.
Something moved on the other side of the room. Carmine turned his head, his attention suddenly shifting away from his own predicament. Corrado stood in front of the window, peering out at a large parking lot. He didn’t turn or speak, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants.
Before Carmine could make sense of any of it, the door to the room opened and a nurse walked in, followed by a doctor. The doctor, white haired and clad in a lab coat, carried a thick chart in his hands. He looked at Corrado with hesitation before turning his gaze to Carmine in the bed. “Mr. DeMarco, it’s nice to see you awake.”
“Uh, yeah.” Carmine’s throat was scratchy. He cleared it before speaking again. “What am I doing here?”
“You don’t remember?” the doctor asked, glancing down at the chart. Carmine remembered going on the faulty job and then making his way to the club to wait for Corrado, but the rest was a black haze. “Well, you were brought in a few hours ago, unresponsive from an overdose.”
“Overdose?”
“Your labs indicate a few drugs in your system, but you overdosed on heroin.”
Carmine blanched. Heroin?
He absorbed nothing else as the doctor talked about Narcan and counteragents, drug rehab, and long-term side effects. Dread once more bubbled up inside of him, brewing in his bloodstream. His muscles were locked up, everything strained and painful. He felt like a fucking Mack truck had hit him.
“We’ll run a few tests and have you out of here by tomorrow,” the doctor said. “Until then, try to get some rest.”
The man’s eyes darted to Corrado again before he excused himself, the nurse leaving with him. The tension in the room quadrupled upon their exit. Carmine lay there, trying to find the words to address the situation, but Corrado beat him to it.
“The rules are simple,” he said, still staring out the window. “We don’t have many, but the ones we do, we expect to be followed. Stay away from drugs and stay out of the limelight. Which part of that didn’t you understand?”
“I, uh . . . look, I didn’t mean for it to go that far, I . . .”
“I don’t want to hear your meaningless excuses, Carmine. How long have you been doing it?”
“A few weeks,” Carmine admitted. “Two months at most, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well, I haven’t kept a fucking calendar or anything.”
“You will talk to me with respect.” The tone of Corrado’s voice sent a chill down Carmine’s spine. He wasn’t speaking as family—he was addressing Carmine as his superior. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. And what in the world possessed you to do a job out at Sycamore Circle? Everybody knows that’s Irish territory!”
“I, uh . . . I got a text.” Carmine looked around for his phone, spotting his clothes laying in a heap on the floor. “I thought you ordered it.”
“Must’ve been Sal,” Corrado muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Three men were hospitalized, you know. One nearly died. And you just fled the scene . . . fled to go get high.”
“I went to find you,” Carmine said defensively. “It was an ambush. They were waiting for us.”
“Of course they were. They warned us weeks ago.”
Carmine said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.
“Do you know the history between the Italian and Irish in Chicago?” Corrado asked, glancing at him and raising his eyebrows.
He nodded hesitantly, clearing his throat. “They hate each other.”
