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“Baby, no one is going to prison,” Salvatore said, having reappeared, still tucking his phone away.
“Salvatore, I killed someone.”
“Yeah, who hasn’t?” he asked, shooting me a smirk. “Okay. So this is how it is going to go from here on out. I called someone. They’re on their way. We are going to handle this.”
“Handle it?” I repeated.
“Yeah. Make it go away.”
“It’s a person. It can’t just go away.”
“It’s a body. And bodies go away all the time. Trust me,” he said, giving me a look that seemed to conveyThe mafia makes a lot of bodies go away.“Unfortunately, this means you two aren’t going to be able to move from those spots until my friend shows up.”
“How long?” I asked, a little preoccupied with the blood on my hands.
“He’s about thirty minutes out,” Salvatore said.
“Okay,” I said, numbly, since there was really nothing else to say.
“Wren. Do you have any injuries you want me to look at in the meantime?” he asked, squinting at her face.
“I’m okay. I’m going to have a wicked headache later, but I’m alright for now.”
“Your ribs are okay? Nothing else like that?”
“They ache a little, but they’re not broken,” Wren assured him.
“What about you, babe?” Salvatore asked, looking at me with an intense gaze.
“I, ah, he never touched me.”
“Good. I just need you to hold it together for about an hour, an hour and a half, okay? Then you can lose your shit for as long as you need to, alright?” he asked.
“I can do that,” I agreed, thinking of all the years of picking my sister up off the floor the night before or living in the dark because there was no money for the electric bill… but going to work regardless, putting on a brave face, getting through the day, then breaking down in private.
We fell into a tense silence for what felt like forever before, suddenly, Wren broke it.
“So, how did you guys meet? Come on,” she said when I shot her aReally, now?look. “What else do we have to do but talk?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled hard. “We met when I was shot twice in the street, and Salvatore operated on me.”
“You’re a doctor?” Wren asked, looking at him.
“No, he’s not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s the mafia’s version of a doctor,” I said.
“When did this happen? How could you hide getting shot from me?” Wren asked, then realization seemed to dawn on her. “The brace.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding. “I was hit in the shoulder. The brace helped me not pull my stitches.”
Wren was silent for a moment, trying to get all these crazy things compute in her brain.
“I’m really not comfortable with you being so dishonest with me,” she said, making me stiffen.
Because Wren never said things like that. She never felt comfortable sharing something that someone else might get upset over or offended by.
