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“Can you believe we have a Marchettianda Lombardi? It’s like mob day here.”
I halt, backtrack to inch closer to the nurses’ station, and peek around the corner to eavesdrop on their conversation.
A male nurse grins. “Maybe I’ll find myself a Mafia boyfriend.”
“Are they here because they, like, shot each other?” a pink-haired nurse asks, spinning her chair.
“How despicable can you be to shoot a woman?” the first girl who spoke asks, holding a cup of Jell-O. She points at the guy with her spoon. “I don’t care who you are, Mafia man or not. That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
“Keep your voices down,” Kimberly, Neomi’s nurse, says, charging toward them while snapping her fingers. “They aren’t related. The Marchetti woman was shot. Vincent Lombardi had a stroke.”
Every inch of my body perks up at Vincent’s name.
His being here sends me a shot of adrenaline stronger than any cup of coffee could provide. It’s as if God thought I was worthy of two favors—the first being my wife didn’t die, and the second, handing Vincent over to me on a hospital-bed platter.
The nurses stop. One types something on the computer, and the others grab their phones. I pour myself a complimentary coffee and wait for Kimberly outside Neomi’s room. When I take a sip, I spit it back into the cup. Gas-station glob tastes better than this shit.
I catch Kimberly’s attention by whistling when she leaves the nurses’ station.
“What room is Vincent Lombardi in?” I ask her.
Her blue eyes widen, as if I’m insane for even asking. “You know I can’t share confidential information about another patient with you.”
I drag my wallet from my pants and hold a hundred between two fingers.
She scoffs. “That’s nowhere near enough to convince me to break HIPAA.”
“How much is then?”
“Ten thousand.” Her answer is sarcastic, but mine isn’t.
“Done. I can have the cash to you within the hour, but for that price, I want more than a room number.”
She nods before jerking her head down the hall, and I walk alongside her.
“Vincent came in yesterday evening after suffering a stroke. This morning, they transferred him to the third floor. I’ll let you know when they input it into the computer.” She stops and looks from left to right. “You can’t kill him. If that’s your plan, wait until you leave the hospital to go through with it. They thoroughly investigate every death here.”
“Just get me the room number, Kimberly. I’ll worry about the rest.” I raise the coffee cup in my hand. “And one more thing: tell the hospital to invest in decent coffee.”
She nods and walks away, and I call my father on his burner. I tell him to come to the hospital and bring ten thousand dollars.
“Give me thirty minutes,” he says before ending the call.
Everyone is still asleep when I return to Neomi’s room. I lean back in the recliner and smile.
Vincent Lombardi.
You are mine.
Kimberly steps into the room, pretending to check Neomi’s fluid bags, and slips me a piece of paper with302written on it.
“Meet my father downstairs—Cristian Marchetti. He’ll be in a black suit, waiting by a black Escalade. He’ll have your money.”
I’ll wait until Kimberly returns before speaking to my father. I don’t need cameras catching me walking out of the hospital with my wife’s nurse.
My phone beeps with a text ten minutes later.
Dad: Meet me outside.
