31. Chapter Thirty-One—Rome
Chapter Thirty-One—Rome
The nurse side eyes me as she checks the IV bag hanging above Carlotta’s bed, although I can’t tell if it’s out of fear or dislike.
Probably both.
Everybody knows who I am by now, after the night nurses wouldn’t allow either me or Cassiel to see Carlotta until I caused such a scene that they had no choice but to let us through to her room or face the wrath of my own two fucking hands.
And I would do it all again in a heartbeat to be beside our girl.
To be able to see her breathing with my own two eyes.
“Mrs. Folonari’s vitals are looking good today,” says the nurse, her back to us as she prints off the graph showcasing Carlotta’s heartrate. “Much better than yesterday.”
Okay, so yes, I may have had to tell a small white lie—in which I’m now Carlotta’s husband and Cassiel, her brother. Both of us next of kin. But it was the only way they were going to let us past.
“Thank god,” I hear Cassiel utter; the first thing he’s said in the past forty-eight hours.
I’m not fairing much better myself. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Carlotta collapsing into my arms, blood dripping from the bullet wound in her shoulder and in her right hip.
It’s all I can do but nod at the nurse’s words, my hands clasped together, head bowed over the edge of Carlotta’s hospital bed.
I’ve stayed in the same position ever since she was bought up from theatre two days ago, her face pallid, the same pale color as the gauzy bandages covering the exit wounds wherein the surgeon said he has to cut two bullets out.
I have the damn things weighing heavy in my pocket and when we’re home—all three of us—I’m going to spend time examining the bastards until I know exactly which dead man walking shot my girl. Twice. And then I’m going to make him pay.
For now, I raise my head slightly watching the gentle rise and fall of Carlotta’s chest. It’s the only thing keeping me going that, and the sight of Mrs. Carlotta Folonari scrawled on the whiteboard above her head, so every new nurse of shift knows who their patient is.
The stillness of Carlotta’s face breaks me. Her lids, tinged with blue veins, flutter while she sleeps and it might be possible to believe her simply asleep if it wasn’t for the constant beeping of the monitor tracking my girl’s heartbeat and her oxygen levels.
“The doctor will be around shortly to check Mrs. Folonari over—”
“And if she hasn’t woken up by then?”
The nurse raises a brow at me. “The doctor believes she can hear, so perhaps talking to Carlotta may wake her up if she knows you and her brother,” she tips a head in Cassiel’s direction, disbelief dripping from her tone.
It probably has something to do with the way he’s gripping Carlotta’s hand, switching between rubbing the valley of her knuckles with his thumb and then bending to kiss the back of her hand, which doesn’t exactly scream brotherly-love.
“Are by her side. Any issues, ring the button and someone will be along.”
I make a side along glance at the large red HELP button beside Carlotta’s head. “Thank you.”
Without another word, the nurse slips out of the door, shutting it quietly behind her.
I inhale shakily, the strong taste of antiseptic coating the back of my throat.
It’s been years since I’ve visited a hospital—the entire place freaks me out.
I have my own doctor on call who knows who I am and isn’t stupid enough to ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answers too. At least, I pay him enough not to ask.
But Carlotta needed serious attention ASAP what with the amount of blood leaving the gunshot wounds dotting her body. She needed surgery and painkillers and something more than just a little stitching back together.
So far, Cassiel and I have managed to convince the hospital it was an unprovoked attack. They haven’t pushed us, probably because they can see how close to the edge both of us are, but I know it’s only a matter of time before the feds come sniffing around.
Like everything, we’ll deal with the set of cards, together, when the time comes. All they need to know is that both Cassiel and I will do anything to protect our girl.
Shoving my chair back with an ear splintering screech, I stand to my full height, my joints popping with lack of disuse.
My throat burns with the scent of disinfectant and the bite of tears.
My stomach growls, but I pay it no heed.
I feel lightheaded, like I can’t breathe properly; as if the four whitewash walls, covered in pamphlets and leaflets displaying signs of infectious diseases, are closing in on me.
“I’m—I’m gonna go get a coffee. You want anything?”
Cass shakes his head wordlessly, his eyes never moving from the sight of Carlotta lying ever so still, leaving me to slip out into the corridor unnoticed.
It feels like the entire ground is moving beneath my feet as I take the stairs two at a time, tightly gripping the handrail to steady myself.
Bypassing the chain coffee shop tucked beside a small store selling candy, snacks and puzzle books, I stumble outside, ignoring the nip of spring wind as it skitters across the flesh of my forearms and slumping down onto the first metal bench I find
Burying my head in my hands, I rest my elbows on my knees, screwing my eyes shut tight and draw in a lungful of air so cold it burns sweetly.
How can this be happening?
How can my girl be lying, unconscious, in a hospital bed, while I—
Pressing my lips together, I entwine my fingers together at the base of my skull, feeling hot tears sear across my vision.
This is all my fucking fault.
“Are ye okay, lad?”
I smell the strong scent of tobacco wafting from him before I raise my head to see him.
An older gentleman, in his mid-eighties I would guess from the folds and lines of time worn into his weathered skin, perches himself beside me.
His gnarled hand curls around the top of his wooden walking cane as he stretches out his legs with a grunt.
Out of the top of his woolen coat pocket, I can just see the top of a cigar pipe—the source of the bitter tobacco scent.
“Sorry, lad,” he continues on seeing me watching him, his Irish accent as thick as tar.
“Hope ye don’t mind me sitting beside ye.
These awld legs don’t hold me up like they used ta; I get God awful cramp.
I probably shouldn’t have walked so far, but I needed a wee nip to soothe the nerves.
” With a low chuckle, he pats his pocket containing his pipe making it rattle. “These hospitals give me the jeebies.”
“Me too,” I mutter darkly, unable to stop picturing Carlotta lying there, as still as the dead, her face devoid of any color and—
“And then I saw ye sitting here and thought ye might need a little company. As long as ye don’t mind an auld fella like myself.” He smiles toothily, showcasing teeth stained with age. “So, I’ll ask ye again, are ye alright?”
I shake my head. “My wife—” The words choke me, stopping dead in my throat.
“Ah,” he coos, as if those two words of mine hold the entire secret to the universe. “I thought it might be something of the sort. Ye can always tell me when it’s love causing ye pain. It’s a different type of pain, aye?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“What’s wrong wi’ her?”
“She’s—” I shake my head, pressing my lips into a thin line, shoving my emotion down, down, down. “She hasn’t woken up from surgery yet and I just—” I meet his dark eyes, not too dissimilar to my own. “All I want is to hear her voice.”
One of his hands, fingers curled inwards with arthritis, lands on my back.
Usually, I shy away from touch. Unless it’s Cassiel, or Carlotta. I didn’t grow up with loving hugs and forgiving hands. Instead, I grew up with harsh, ice cold words and looks worth a thousand unsaid words.
Touch makes me shiver—the feel of warm hands, not my own, sets my skin alight with displeasure. But I don’t shrug or pull away from the old man’s reassuring hand lands between my shoulder blades with a light pressure.
“From one auld buggar to a young lad, let me tell ye something…she’ll be grand, our lasses are stronger than we give them credit for.
Stronger than we are for sure. My Dot’s just had her hip replaced, I left her just then to get a drag of the pipe when she told me off for hovering.
Said she was fine and threatened to throttle me with her nightdress if I didn’t stop fussing like a mother hen.
But we canna help it, us men. It’s just in us.
We fret because we’d rather it was us in their place, aye? ”
Bobbing my head in agreement, I wipe at the frozen tip of my nose. “Yeah.”
“And they know it, deep down.” He smiles at me, patting my back again before he retracts his hand. “She’ll be as right as rain, arguing wi’ ye in no time and ye’ll be glad of it. When she’s shouting at ye, all up a height wi’ temper, ye’ll be smiling because ye’ll know she’s fine then.”
Swallowing thickly, I force my lips to move. “I should be getting back. But… thank you.”
“Quite alright, laddie. Help an auld man up, will ye and I’ll see ye on yer way back to yer woman.”
Sliding my palm into his dry one, I try not to show my surprise at how strong his grasp still is. Both back on our feet, I walk by his hobbled side to the hospital’s entrance, conscious of how tall my shadow is beside his.
“I was gonna get a coffee,” I say, before it’s too late. “Do you want something?”
The gentleman appraises me, looking me up and down the eyes, hooded with excess skin and then nods. “Aye. Coffee. Black. Sounds grand to me.”
I order for the two of us while he waits, tucking himself in a spare wooden chair at the back of the café, hands clutching his cane.
He doesn’t question the extra coffee cup I carry, rather we ride the elevator in silence until we get to the end of the corridor.
“I hope your wife makes a full recovery with her hip,” I say, pressing the hot coffee cup into his awaiting palm.
“And yers. I know they’re both going to be grand, mark my words, laddie.”