The journey north to Hampstead was a car ride Nero couldn’t describe. Cass drove like the retired joyrider he was, swerving in and out of the dense London traffic, but even with his best efforts, he couldn’t avoid the gridlock on Pond Street, the road leading up to the hospital.
He swung into a bus stop, ignoring the rage of a black cab behind him. “Go. Run. You’ll get there quicker on foot.”
Nero was already halfway out the car. He left the door open and sprinted up the road, shoulder barging anyone who got in his way. The Royal Free wasn’t a hospital he knew, and as he charged towards the main entrance he realised he had no idea where to go. A&E? The fucking morgue?
He burst through the revolving door, searching for Tom’s sandy-blond hair, and any sign of the police. At first glance, he found nothing, and the panic already crippling him increased to the point where he could hardly breathe. White dots danced in front of his eyes. He spun around again and again, until finally he focused enough to see a reception desk.
The woman behind the desk was staring at him like he’d fallen from Mars. “Who are you looking for?”
“Lenny Mitchell. Is he okay?”
“I can’t tell you that until you tell me who you are.”
“Nero Fierro.”
The woman nodded and searched her chaotic work station. “There is a message here somewhere . . .”
Nero balled his hands into fists. “Is he okay?”
A phone rang. “Just a moment, sir—”
The woman started talking into the receiver attached to her head. Nero wanted to rip it from her and throw it at the wall.
“Please. You have to tell me if he’s okay.”
The woman put her hand over the receiver and reached behind a computer monitor. She passed Nero a scrap of paper and a tangled coil of leather, and then gestured to a set of double doors. Through there, she mouthed.
And then she went back to her phone call.
Nausea roiled in Nero’s gut as he tried to make sense of the artisan jewellery he’d never seen before—a necklace and a bracelet—but they weren’t Lenny’s, were they? At first glance, he was certain not, but as he peered closer and turned the pendant over and over, his heart said different. He stared at the brushed silver tiger, so tightly entwined with a butterfly-themed sugar skull. Goddammit, it was Lenny and Nero, forged together, like they had been ever since Nero had found Lenny squatting on his couch. “Where did you get these?”
The woman glanced up impatiently. “They’ve got your name on. Says here that you should have them.”
“Says where?”
But the woman merely pointed again to the double doors and buzzed him in.
Nero shoved his way through the doors the moment there was room enough, his brain echoing with the last time he’d heard those ominous four words: “You should have these, Nero. Your granddad always wanted to give them to you. We just never found the right time.”
Rosa Fierro slid two cameo rings across the plastic prison table. “They aren’t worth much, but perhaps you can use them to start a new life when you get out of this place.”
If only. The rings had been stolen from his cell a few days later, and Feltham YOI hadn’t been—still wasn’t by all accounts—the kind of place where anyone gave a shit. Even Nero hadn’t cared much. What good would a couple of rings have been when the only man he’d ever looked up to was gone, taking his wife with him just a few months later? And all that remained now was the reason they had been given to him in the first place—because Tito was dead.
Oh god.
He’s dead.
Lenny’s dead.
Nero moved blindly into the emergency department. He gave Lenny’s name at another reception desk and, like magic, more doors opened, but he felt no relief, only panic-laced grief—grief that he deserved. After all, losing Lenny was no more than Nero deserved. He’d taken a man’s life with no remorse. What right did he have to expect his own to remain so vibrant?
His heart had never hurt so much, even when they’d told him Tito had died. His hand flew to his chest, like he could push the pain back, like he could plug the widening cracks before they fissured, and broke him apart. Lenny, please. I love you.
“Nero?” Tom’s voice was distant, like Nero was underwater, and his hand on Nero’s arm was surreal.
Nero pulled away from the unfamiliar touch. “Don’t.”
Tom ignored him and grabbed his other arm. “Nero. Come on. You need to come with me.”
