Chapter 38
MATTEO
Chiara’s been in surgery for about an hour and Goldie has finally stopped shaking. She’s sipping the hot chocolate I got her from the machine, wrapped in my jacket, some color finally returning to her cheeks. Just a touch, but maybe the worst is over. Unless the worst is yet to come.
As though whatever darkness hangs over me heard me call to it, the elevator door opens, and a couple of police officers trailed by a detective with coffee stains all down the front of his shirt walk out. They zero in on us immediately.
Ferro’s called me a bunch of times, but I’ve chosen to ignore his calls. And his texts warning me to be extra careful, cursing me out for staying behind, but asking how Chiara was doing. I’ve texted back that she’s in surgery and that I’ll report back when I know more.
The detective walks up to us, flanked by the two officers and introduces himself.
To Gianna, not me. He also pulls a notepad and pen from the pocket of his washed-out grey jacket.
Everything about him screams that he’s seen better days, from his thinning hair to his clothes that by my guess needed replacing about ten years ago.
“I understand the young lady who was shot is your sister, is that right?”
Goldie hiccups and nods and starts shaking again.
“What happened to her?”
Goldie shrugs. “I don’t know. I was called and told she’d been shot and that she was taken to this hospital and I rushed right over. My boyfriend brought me.”
She doesn’t bat an eye as she lies, doesn’t even glance at me or do anything to betray that she’s not telling the absolute truth.
If she told him that she’d been taken prisoner by me, that she’s not with me of her own free will, I’d be in a lot of trouble. Ruined, most likely. Instead, she called me her boyfriend. I’m having the hardest time not smiling widely, since that would be totally inappropriate.
“And who called you to tell you this?” the detective asks and the wish to smile evaporates from my mind.
The elevator door slides open again, and this time two of Ferro’s men—Caputo and Francesco—come out, walking behind a man I’ve never seen before.
“It’s all right, detective Dodd, I’ll take it from here,” the man says.
All three of the cops look in his direction, the expressions on their faces turning from officious to something that looks a lot like subservience.
“Chief? You sure,” Dodd asks.
Chief as in Chief of Police? How much influence does Ferro have?
“Yes, Dodd,” the chief says. “Go. We’ll talk back at the station.”
The look on Dodd’s face suggests he’s never had much of a conversation with the chief and isn’t expecting one now. But he slides his notepad into the front pocket of his coffee-stained shirt, says, “You got it, Chief,” motions for the police officers to follow him and walks to the elevator.
The waiting room is as quiet as a crypt until the elevator slides shut behind them.
“That was good work, Chief,” Caputo says. “Mr. Ferro will be pleased. Now go back to the office and make sure this all goes away for good.”
The chief doesn’t look happy, but whether it’s because of Caputo’s condescending tone or something else, I can’t tell. He doesn’t say anything, just leaves. And again, no one speaks until he’s gone. Goldie is shaking again, looking at the door that leads to the operating room where her sister is.
I follow her gaze. A doctor is coming out, his mask hanging off his face, and his scrubs rumpled and wrinkled like he’d been in a fight. He’s looking right at Goldie and she stands up, my jacket sliding off her shoulders. She walks towards him as though she’s moonwalking. I follow.
“You’re the sister of the woman who’d been shot?” the doctor asks and she just nods.
“We’ve managed to stabilize her and fix most of the damage,” he says. “The next few hours will be critical, but the prognosis is good.”
Goldie’s knees buckle and I catch her just in time. It’s as though whatever had been holding her upright has vanished.
“She’ll be… she’ll be fine?” she mutters.
“Too early to tell,” the surgeon. “But I am hopeful.”
I could punch the guy, teach him to show more sensitivity because he’s delivering this good news with all the feeling of a stone. But it is good news, and I know from experience that surgeons usually have no bedside manner to speak of.
“Can I... Can I see her?” Goldie asks, trembling in my arms.
“Just for a few minutes,” the surgeon says. “Follow me.”
Then he turns and strides back to where he came from, walking fast as though Goldie is in any condition to keep pace with him. But with my help she manages it.
I hope she’ll stop fighting me so hard from now on. Because I’d like nothing better than to help her from now until eternity. Help her with whatever she needs.