Why did I save him?
I could have called 911. Could have let the paramedics take him. Could have washed my hands of the whole thing.
But I didn't.
I called Sophia. Called Lorenzo. Let a mafia doctor into my apartment. Scrubbed blood from my floors like it was normal.
Because it is normal. For them.
And apparently, for me too.
I look at my notepad again. At my careful handwriting. At the list of instructions I'll follow because I don't know how not to.
Two pills, twice a day.
Wound care every twelve hours.
Watch for infection.
Keep him calm.
I tear the page from the notepad. Fold it carefully. Tuck it into my pocket.
Then I walk to the bedroom door.
I don't open it.
I just stand there. Listening to the silence on the other side.
My phone rings.
I jump. Nearly drop it before I even get it out of my pocket.
Sophia's name flashes on the screen.
I answer before the second ring.
"Marina." Her voice is tight. Controlled. The way it gets when she's trying to hold something together. "How is he?"
"Alive." I lean against the wall outside the bedroom door. "The doctor just left. Said the bullet missed his kidney by two centimeters."
"Thank God."
"Yeah. He's unconscious. Will be for a few hours."
There's a pause. I hear voices in the background. Low. Male. Lorenzo, probably.
"Listen," Sophia says. "Lorenzo is going to send someone to get him. Tonight. We'll have him out of your apartment before?—"
"He can't be moved."
Silence.
"What?"
"The doctor said forty-eight hours minimum." I rub my forehead. "No movement for three days. Infection risk. Something about the wound needing to stabilize."
"Marina—"
