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Struggling, I kick my legs free of the covers with whatever energy I have left. Getting out of here is my priority.
If I don’t, I’m in danger. The Quiet Action is still in full effect here, I’m sure of it. I don’t trust these doctors and where they get their bonuses from.
Another rocket launches from the base of my feet, its trajectory along the main arteries of my legs. The extreme warmth releases around the back of my spine, curls over my hips, and spreads out to fill the cavity.
Then I’m numb.
Not even panic settles in my blood. It dissipates as easily as a blink, my muscles liquefy into a stream of nothing. Sounds mask themselves in the air and clouds envelope me. I float into the space around me.
Gently... gently... ge..n..t—
Eyes wide open. This time, my surroundings clearer than before, the memories of what happened to me just as vivid. I got shot on Pink Street. I told my father showing up here was risky, begged him to send someone else, but he insisted it be me. Said my mother would know where to hide me if necessary and get me back across the ocean with his merchandise.
It may have worked if my mother and father got along. That’s probably why Mom didn’t answer the door, even knowing the bounty placed on my head if I ever showed my face on Pink Street again. Maybe she thought Dad was with me.
I can’t blame Mom. I wouldn’t open the door either. My dad’s a prick, and if he didn’t love my mother deep down inside, he’d kill her. He’s kind of a psycho, which comes in handy when necessary. He’s probably raging right about now.
I have to get my phone and place a call to my dad to tell him I may be getting arrested and the cops likely have his snow. Them or the mob.
I had no fucking clue how the mob knew I was back in town, or how they knew where I would be and at what time, which has me worried about my mother. What did they do to her?
“Senhor Morano?” The voice of a woman snaps my head in the direction of the sound. She wears normal clothing but her stiff posture says it all: cop.
The last thing I need to be seen doing is speaking to them again, so I pretend to know nothing and tilt my head slightly.
Glancing behind her, the intruder shuts the door before approaching me. “Stefano?” Throwing my real name out there to get a reaction, she adds each subsequent piece as if a puzzle. “Yuri... Xavier... Morano.”
I reach for the mouth piece, but it’s no longer there. “Am I...” My voice sounds like a pubescent teenager. “Ahem,” I clear my throat a few times. “Am I supposed to pick one of those?”
Her brows crinkle at my response, or at the fact that I shoot English back at her without much of an accent.
Years of practice. Years of traveling.
“Who are you?” I ask as I try to sit up.
The woman reaches for the hanging button and helps lift the bed, throwing me off a bit. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” I stop it before she puts me completely upright. The over-bleached sheets on my chest fall slightly, revealing a faded hospital gown.
“Can you tell me why I’m here?” Last thing I remember was a bullet hole, and my mid-section reminds me of it, but I need to play this right. “And who are you?” I run my fingers over the IV lines and survey the room for an escape, just in case this goes south and she cuffs me. Or the mob finds me.
This angle gives me a better view. Beside me, eight curtains with light blue triangles wrap around individual U-shaped rods that hang from the ceiling. With a little focus, I make out the faint hum of multiple machines in various distances. I’m not quite sure what unit I’m in, but the cop didn’t bother to whisper. Wild guess, but I’m betting my neighbors aren’t conscious.
“I’m a detective with the local police force. Flora Beyer.” She glances behind her. The fact that there’s no chunk of metal on my wrist must mean they don’t have the drugs.
Through a set of sliding glass doors, nurses scurry back and forth, charts in hands and ugly plastic shoes gliding across the white-tiled floor. “You were shot ten days ago.”
“Ten days?” Legitimate shock comes through in my high pitch. “How-why? What happened to me?”
I know full well what happened. The people who run Pink Street came through on their threat, except I’m pretty sure they were meant to put the lights out and shut me up forever.
“High levels of scorpion venom were found in your system along with cocaine and a few other substances. You suffered a massive overdose. We almost lost you when you came to six days ago. They had to force you into a coma.”
“What?”
“I assure you, you’re safe for now.” She glances at the heart monitor that has far too many peaks. “I pulled some strings to get you here and keep your identity secure from any media and staff.”
“Why?”What is she playing at?
