I knew the brothers hid us because they were worried about retaliation, though Rocco was certain that Ettore was gone, probably to seek medical treatment and then to America to hide.
“Vendetta” was not just a word to the family. It was a vow. Those who followed Marzio blindly would see to it, but so would Ettore. He felt Brando was the reason his father took a bullet.
It’s his fault because he was born!
Taking the oversized recliner by the shuttered window, I fell into myself, into silence, into prayer. The sound of Rosaria and Aunt Lola’s voices carried through the monotony in my head, and the three of us clung together, our hands connecting in stronger power.
The two brothers sat next to each other, eyes open but not seeing, double-crossed and battle-worn.
I listened intently for the connection then. It hummed, but it was a tickle, an echo of a heartbeat.
“Signora Fausti.”
My eyes snapped open. I went to stand but wobbled. Rosaria and Aunt Lola rose beside me, keeping our hands together.
“Yes.”
“Sì.”
Rosaria and I answered at once.
“Brando Fausti.”
“My husband,” I said.
The doctor was American. When he caught that I was too, he seemed to relax some, but the accusation stayed in his eyes. He thought he knew what my husband and our family were about.
All I could do was nod and wipe at my eyes when the doctor told me that Brando would make a full recovery, and that Rocco was even better than his brother, and was waiting for Rosaria. Brando would be in recovery for a while.
Uncle Tito was in critical condition, and updates would be given periodically. Aunt Lola fainted from the strain of it and was taken away. Dario and Romeo escorted her.
Before she went down, she had whispered, “I have no children. No one but him.” It sounded louder than a wail to me.
Alone in the silence, I settled in to wait, until an hour later I sat beside him, the two of us in stillness. Occasionally, his eyes would open to find mine, and then he would slip back under. He would mutter things that made no sense, others that would.I had you drive; I knew we’d be safe together. A drunken grin came to his face.I knew you’d come, no matter if I told you to stay put or not. You can’t help yourself, Ballerina Girl. You’re like a contrary child sometimes.
“That’s right,” I said, taking his hand, kissing it. “Where you go, I go. And no, not like a contrary child, like your wife.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know the power you have, woman.”
When he could focus on me for longer than a minute, and he was coming to his senses, I put his hand against my heart, the tattered ribbon between us—the one he had found out in the snow the night we connected. It had been in his pocket, and one of the nurses had brought it to me at his insistence.
“The doctor said you were lucky,” I whispered. “You lost quite a bit of blood. One bullet barely missed a vital spot.”
“Yeah.” His eyes were still glazed, but they drifted to my stomach. “Lucky.”
The tone of the comment was two-fold. He knew that he was fortunate, but at the moment, he didn’t feel it. I threw myself into his care after that. The medical personnel did their part, and I did everything else. It was better this way; his mood turned hard. He would snap one-word answers or avoid conversation all together. It was bad enough that I had to fight with him to keep him in the hospital. He wanted out.
Nurses would flutter in and out, hoping to charm him. I could see the way they looked at him, cheeks flushing. Sometimes two of them would hustle close together, whispering when they thought he wasn’t looking. I wondered if Rocco was causing a similar fuss, and when I caught the word “brother,” I knew that he was.
“There are two single brothers out in the hallway,” I said in Italian, surprising them. “Have at them.”
The smart ones had probably figured that out, but who was I to lecture?
Despite my husband’s aloofness, the staff seemed to understand his mood. I guessed assault by a family member and treachery by wife was a common occurrence in hospitals. In other words, raging against no control in frightening situations.
I stilled my hand, soap bubbles and water running down my arms—I was helping Brando wash, not able to get his wounded shoulder wet—and blinked back tears.
Treacherous wife.
