“He wanted to come and see you, but the doctor advised him against it.”
“Okay.” Was he telling me that so my feelings wouldn’t be hurt?
“He knows you saved his life.”
“I didn’t do it for him. I did it because I knew my brother would regret it for the rest of his.”
“You have every right to feel the way you feel.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
He inhaled a deep breath.
“Where’s Dominic?”
“I don’t know. He disappeared after the shooting. No one knows. He didn’t go home, didn’t pack, didn’t take anything with him. Just left.”
“Is it true?”
Roman nodded.
“And you knew?”
“I’m the only one apart from your mother and father who knew. He regrets having told him.”
“He should.”
I cursed my father for having told Dominic like that. What purpose did it serve? It would only wound Dominic. Perhaps irreparably.
“Franco is no longer able to manage the family, the businesses, anything, Salvatore. I’ve been doing it until you’re recovered.”
We studied each other for a long time. I just couldn’t tell what my uncle was looking for.
“I have papers here, things I want to go over.”
A small knock came on the door. Lucia opened it.
“Not now,” I said to him. “Just take care of everything for now.”
“I can come back,” Lucia said.
“No, you stay. Roman, thanks for your visit.”
Roman took his dismissal with grace and left. Lucia sat back down in the same chair.
“Coffee is so crappy here,” she said, setting the untouched paper cup on the table nearby.
Before we had a chance to talk, though, the doctor walked in to look things over and told me I’d be home in three days’ time. Lucia vacated her chair and stood back and watched, giving the doctor room. Every time I looked at her when she didn’t know I was, I saw the worry on her face. My mind traveled back to what I’d told her. What I’d promised her. Freedom, as soon as I was boss. Freedom, once I knew she was safe. A quiet life. Happiness. I wanted it for everyone I loved. I wanted it especially for her.
24
LUCIA
Salvatore moved into a bedroom downstairs while he recovered. I slept beside him, taking care not to touch the still tender spot the bullet had ripped into. I knew he felt pain, but he insisted on less and less medication, saying he could manage it. Within a day of being home, he could walk on his own to the bathroom, although it wore him out.
“I hate this,” he grumbled a week later after one of his visits to the bathroom. “I hate being weak.”
I tucked the blanket up to his waist. “You’re getting stronger every day.”
