I press my hand to my mouth, like that will keep my heart from falling out of my chest.God, no. Please. Not him. Not the only person I have left. Not my brother.
I force a ragged breath through my lungs.You have to bestrong now. Yes, I nod to myself.I do. And another thought.You need to get to the hospital.
That's a good plan. On autopilot, I get up and, like every morning, go into the bathroom to apply makeup and cover my bruises. I select clothing for the same reason: anything that will hide the choke marks on my throat and the abrasions on my wrists. I'm not a prisoner. Roberto doesn't think I will ever leave him, and I hate to admit it, but he's right. I have nowhere to go.
The driver and guard who are assigned to me are sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flirting with the maids.
"I need to go to the hospital," I say, stepping in.
"Just a minute, let me finish my coffee," Ben, the driver, smirks.
Something inside me ruptures. I wouldn't care if this were about me, but it isn't. For all I know, Marcello might already be dead. I don't have time for this nonsense. Not today. "Now!"
Everyone in the kitchen freezes and stares at me like I'm some kind of alien. I sounded like one, too, even to myself.
Ben and Norman rise. Without a word, I turn my back and march toward the garage, putting on a pair of large sunglasses.
The ride to St. Raphael’s Medical Center is sheer torture. Every second drags like an hour, and my mind is filled withthe worst scenarios. I get there and he's already dead, or back in surgery, dying; one scenario is worse than the other. I was so distressed when I left that I even forgot to let Roberto know what I was doing, like I was supposed to. I can come and go as I please, but I have to keep him abreast of every step I take. I'm sure Ben or Norman will have already notified him, but for once in three years, I don't care.
"Let me out here," I demand, and both Ben and Norman are so stupefied by my behavior that they actually listen. Ben stops at the front door to the emergency room, and Norman follows me, pushing reporters out of the way, who are hovering about the entrance like a pack of vultures.
"Marcello Orsi?" I ask the security guard at the entryway.
He doesn't even have to look Marcello up. He knows who he is. Everybody in this city does. His eyes move from me to my bodyguard, and he must realize we're not the press.
"Top floor, ICU, room 314. The elevator is over there," he points behind him.
Norman makes the metal detector chirp aggressively, but the guard only flinches and turns it off. Of course, Norman is carrying. And of course, the guard doesn't challenge him, despite the big sign: No Firearms.
Wordlessly, we ride up. The elevator stops several times on different floors, and Norman scowls at anyone waiting there, closing the door without letting them in. Then we finally stop on the top floor.
My heart rate hasn't slowed since I got the first notification, and all the beeping of the monitors coming from the open doors around me reminds me of that.
"Here." Norman stops in front of a door guarded by four burly men.
"You can't go in there," one advises, posing a bodily bar in front of it.
"Stay out here," I tell Norman, then look at the man, "I'm Sophia Giordano, Marcello's sister."
He nods at me, turns his head to the partially open sliding door, "Luciano?"
I recognize Marcello’s second-in-command immediately. I met him when I defied my dad's orders and visited Marcello in Sicily a few years ago, and again when I picked Marcello up at the airport.
"Sophia," Luciano nods at me, then to the guard. "Let her in. She's family."
The man steps to the side but refuses to let Norman follow me. I don't care; let the testosterone figure that one out.
"How is he?" I ask Luciano breathlessly, while my head is already whipping to the one single bed in the room. Marcello lies motionless under a pale blue blanket, his left leg elevated in a sling, wrapped in thick layers of gauze and bandaging.Hisshoulder is similarly dressed, with the upper arm strapped tightly to prevent movement. A brutal gash mars his temple, disappearingbeneath the thick white dressing that covers most of his skull. A ventilator tube snakes from his mouth, hissing steadily in rhythm with the machine beside him. Monitors beep with sterile detachment, tracking vitals, oxygen levels, and brain activity, like a cruel orchestra keeping time to how close he is to dying.
My knees go weak.
"Jesus, Marcello…" My hand flies to my chest, like I can stop my heart from breaking right here in the doorway.
Luciano stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "They had to remove a part of his skull to relieve the pressure. Bullet hit him in the temple. Doctors said if it had gone a few millimeters deeper…"
He doesn’t finish.
I walk toward my brother, every step heavy, like I’m trudging through water. "Does he know I’m here?" It’s a stupid question.
