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I swallow the knot in my throat and nod. “I’d like that. Thanks for the chocolate bar and, you know,” I murmur, my throat tightening, “being so nice.”
Her laugh floats through the room like a welcome breeze on a warm day. “Nice is just what I do. See ya!”
And with that, she click-clacks down the hall, taking her cart with her. Left alone, I infect the sterile room with a loud groan. It seems like I’ve stepped out of one fire I caused and into another I didn’t. How am I going to go straight when I’m surrounded by trouble?
I’d never expect this type of shit in Devil’s Dip. It is—was—the sleepy town on the Coast. The one in the shadows of the flashing lights, where residents can close their eyes at night and not have to worry about getting caught in the middle of Cosa Nostra chaos.
Besides, if my luck really is waning…
I swallow the lump in my throat. Give a small shake of my head in an attempt to rid myself of the thought.
Luck is believing you’re lucky. That’s what the woman told me in the alleyway when she gave me her necklace. This will help you, but you don’t need to rely on it.
My lids fluttering shut, I give in to the softness of the pillow under my head for a few moments. I’m lucky. I am. Still, I can’t help but consider selling Raphael’s watch, paying off whatever extortionate medical bill I’m slapped with, and then getting a bus over the border to Canada.
Eyes still closed, I reach out to the bedside table for my purse and realize it’s not there. Shit. The last time I remember having it—remember anything, actually—was at the port. Groaning, I weakly wrestle with the wheelchair folded up beside the bed and slide my heavy limbs into it. I’ll just wheel myself down the hall to the nurses’ station and ask.
As I push myself out to the hall, white walls and silver doors pass in a cool, drug-fueled haze. A chill caresses my back and I realize I’m wearing nothing but a flimsy hospital gown, the type that ties up at the back. No bra, and my body is too numb and sluggish to assess whether I even have panties on.
The moment I turn the corner, my gaze locks with another and my heart drops on instinct.
Cold and brown as a slushy pile of mud on a winter morning, the man’s eyes trail up from my muddy toes to the bandage on my head, before settling into a thin line of suspicion.
Silence screams, but the ghost of his gruff voice yells even louder in my brain.
Does a bear shit in the woods?
It’s the man who was guarding the top of the stairs at the bar. Heartbeat jittering, my attention darts to the cluster of sharp suits and sour faces that loiter in the hallway behind him. Shiny shoes reflect clinical lights. Beefy hands curl around Styrofoam cups.
And then a familiar cashmere voice seeps out from the unknown and wraps its soft hand around my lungs. My wheels come to a slow stop.
“Thank you, Sheriff. Our family truly appreciates your help during this difficult time.”
A shuffle of papers, then heavy footsteps grow louder. “Anytime, Mr. Visconti. Please send your brother my congratulations on the wedding.”
“Only if you tell your mother those gingerbread cookies she sent over have changed my life.”
There’s a gruff chuckle, then black shoes and a beige uniform emerge from the door on the right. The Sheriff glances over his shoulder and grins. “She’ll be happy to hear. Take care now, Mr. Visconti. And if you need anything, you know you can always reach me on my personal cell.”
He strolls down the hallway in the other direction, trying to force a verythick brown envelope into the pocket of his slacks.
Annoyance prickles at my chest, because of coursethe Viscontis have the police under their thumbs.
For a few seconds, I’m torn between scrambling back to my room or continuing with my mission to get my phone. Stubbornness makes me settle on the latter. That, and my burning need to call my hotline and mull over my thoughts of moving to Canada.
I stare at the ugly geometric print of my hospital gown and keep pushing my chair, but as I grow closer and closer to passing the door on the right, unease slides under my skin like tectonic plates.
I peer into the hospital room to my right, and let my gaze settle on the man himself.
My heart hitches in my chest.
Black suit. White Shirt. Gold collar pin. I don’t know why I bother checking his hallmark features off a mental list, because Raphael Visconti’s outline is unmistakable.
The room is darker than mine, save for the lone sunbeam slicing a diagonal line across his profile. The bed is tightly dressed, and stacks of notes are wrapped in bands and piled high on the bedside table. More bribes, no doubt.
He’s spilling out of an armchair in the corner, resting his elbows on his knees and subjecting the tiles underneath his Oxfords to an expressionless stare. He spins something between his fingers in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, and it takes four revolutions for me to realize it’s a gold poker chip.
Thawp. Thawp. Thawp. The chip, diamond cufflinks, and his citrine ring wink at me.
