“From him. Told him I didn’t have the money. They didn't take no for an answer.”
“Shhh,” I murmur, patting his bruised hand. He winces and I feel like an idiot. “It’ll be okay. I’ll get you to the hospital and then call the police?—”
“No.” Mr. Rossi grabs my hand and squeezes, despite his bruises. “No hospital. No police.”
“But…”
“No. They’re coming back.”
A chill spreads through the pit of my stomach. I ignore it and say briskly, “Let’s get you up and into a chair. I can get you some ice for your head?—”
“No. No time. They know that she’s upstairs.” She. Mrs. Rossi. Bedridden. This Stefanos guy and his men just trashed the place and beat up Mr. Rossi.They’re coming back.
Mr. Rossi coughs and clutches my hand harder. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Go to the safe.” He points to the cupboard tucked behind the washing machine. “Now.” He pushes me. “Go.”
I resist. “You need a doctor.”
“Don't want her to know.”
“She's going to find out,” I snap. This is a mess. This is a nightmare. “Fine.” I rise and go to the cupboard, opening it to the safe. “What now?”
“The combination is June 21st, 1989.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi’s wedding date. I suck in a breath and turn the dial, starting with zero, six…
It clicks open, revealing stacks of cash.
“Take it all.” Mr. Rossi’s breath whistles a little. Did he break a rib?
“But this is your savings,” I cry. “This was for her treatment.” There are tears in my eyes. “You can't do this.”
“I have to.” Mr. Rossi chokes. More blood trickles out of his nose. “Please, Leah,” he says. “You must take it to them. And be quick. I wouldn’t ask you?—”
“No, no, I’ll do it.” I stuff the money into one of our white paper bakery bags, and tuck it under my coat.
I stop at the sink on my way to the door. I can’t just leave Mr. Rossi like this.
“Here.” I press the wet tissue to his nose.
He raises a shaking hand to hold it. “Go now, Leah. Do you know the office building on the other side of the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“Look for number eighteen-oh-four. That is the office.” His eyes are wide, the whites flashing. “Don't linger. Tell them it's for the Rossi account. Tell them it's for Stefanos.”
“Stefanos. Got it.”
“Leah… I’m sorry.” For a moment, he looks ashamed. “I shouldn't ask you?—"
“It’ll be fine,” I lie.
My breaths fog in my face as I stumble out of the bakery. The bell jingles, but the sound is muted against my frantic panting. Mr. Rossi’s in there, mopping up his own blood. Can he move? Can he walk? I should go back and help him. Instead, I scurry past the bus stop and cross the road, maneuvering around piles of slush.
There’s a twinge in my foot but I don’t stop marching. Mr. Rossi mentioned a fountain. It’s a ten, fifteen-minute walk.
