It takes three whole days before he finally opens his eyes. Thankfully, I’m there to see it. I set the magazine down on the bedside table, the same one I’ve read over and over since my vigil began.
“Brandon?” I whisper.
“Marlena?” he croaks, his voice rusty from disuse. “Is that you?”
“Brandon!” I shout, getting to my feet and running around to his side of the bed. “Oh, thank God!”
From the other room, the doctor comes rushing toward us. He pushes me aside and does a few quick checks of Brandon’s vitals, taking his temperature and his pulse oxygen rate. I crane my neck eagerly, impatient even though I know the doctor’s care takes precedence.
Finally, the doctor looks up. “He’s doing well,” he reports. “I’m going to tell Mr. Corello.”
Brandon blinks, watching the doctor disappear out the door before turning to me for an explanation.
“He’s a doctor,” I say, because to my mind it isn’t obvious from the way the doctor is dressed.
“I can tell,” Brandon quips. It’s nice to hear him being sarcastic, despite the fact that such barbs would usually get under my skin.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, taking his hand in mine.
“Like I was just run over by a truck,” he complains.
“I’m so sorry, Brandon,” I murmur, sitting down on the bed beside him. “This is all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” he asks.
He glances around the bedroom looking for something. I deduce that he’s thirsty, so I fetch him a glass of water. He drinks slowly, taking in all the information from our surroundings as he does. His eyes settle on the IV of fluids draining into his arm. Then he looks out the window, where we can see nothing but blue sky through the curtains.
“Where are we?” he finally asks, the question I’ve been dreading or at least one of them.
I draw a deep breath, knowing that this is going to be hard. I have to tell him everything, even knowing that he’ll be upset. He has to know about our father, about Francisco and me, and about all the people who want to hurt us. It’s not going to be easy, so I take my time. Brandon listens patiently as I fill in the gaps between what he experienced as a kid and what I’ve come to learn.
“Our dad was a hitman,” I say.
“What?” Brandon scoffs.
“He killed a high-ranking member of the Andretti family,” I continue, my even tone hopefully convincing him I’m telling the truth. “Don Corello is the head of a rival family, and he’s agreed to give us his protection. He also introduced me to our father’s family in Italy.”
“You’ve been to Italy?” Brandon asks, clearly grappling with the immensity of our shared problem.
“Yes,” I reply. “And I’ve met the Roccas. They’re anxious to meet you too. I can’t tell you how amazing they all are.”
Brandon coughs, and I move slightly to give him space. “But they’re all criminals, right?” he asks point-blank.
“Yes,” I’m forced to admit.
“So one criminal gang is protecting us from another gang, but they’re not doing a very good job, since I was nearly killed?” Brandon sums it all up from his perspective.
“There’s something else,” I say, cringing because I don’t want to see his reaction.
“What?” he snaps.
“I’m married,” I announce. “To Francisco. Don Corello.”
“You’re what!” Brandon shouts, coming up off the pillow with a burst of strength that surprises me.
“Easy,” I caution, putting my hands on his chest. “It was for the best. This way, if Carlo Andretti attacked us, we’d have the full backing of the Corello family behind us.”
Brandon relaxes again, shaking his head in remorse. “Tell me you didn’t marry the guy just to save us.”
