I thought about that obituary he’d quoted in the ER. But no... Men didn’t mourn for years-plus. Even Cade had gotten over Vinny’s death in two. I could easily remember how bittersweet it had been to see him move on when I’d still felt like ending it all.
“Is…” I struggled to verbalize my thoughts. “…he grieving the grief of grieving?”
“And they say English is easier to learn than Sicilian,” he chided.
“I still can’t believe that you didn’t speak English until you went to prison.”
“Istill can’t believe that you befriended a man who’s lived all of his adult life in prison. I’m certain that your father didn’t teach you the ways of the world before he passed.”
“And I told you that prison is a holiday home for the men in my sphere, which is why I have nothing to do with the mob aside from attending church with them.” I punctuated that declaration by shoving the spoon in my mouth.
“It makes it more curious that you associate with me.”
And that his nephew fascinated me…
“Associate? I’m wounded, Currau! We’re buds.”
He nudged my arm with his bony knuckles. “We are.”
“So long as we’re on the same page,” I joked, but I genuinely meant it.
What had started as me sneaking in to watch TV with the silent patient to avoid my supervisor and take a break from the mayhem of the ER mattered to me now.
“When he came into power, his enemies murdered a friend he’d had since he was small. A friend who’d left Sicily for him, who’d fought against the Italians with him…” Ugh, I remembered those days. Gang warfare—not fun. “I don’t think he ever recovered from that before life hit him again and he lost a girl who meant a lot to him.”
Oh.
A name whispered into my brain.
Evangeline.
Hers was the obituary he’d quoted.
“How did he lose her?”
“She was sick. Very sick.”
“That sucks.”
And I was not touched by such devotion in an era of dating apps and throwaway fucks.
Nope.
“It does indeed.” His sigh was weary. “It’s hard to overcome grief and the guilt that comes with moving on.”
I hesitated. “Keep a secret?”
“Of course.” He made a show of zipping his lips, which had us both snickering.
“He was in here a couple weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He took some drugs?—”
“Suicide?” the old man sputtered, for the first time showing any emotions about his family that didn’t involve regret, curiosity, and a resigned kind of longing.
“No. At least, I didn’t think so. Maybe this information changes…” I shook my head. “They put it down in his file that it was an attempt, but he called it in?—”
