42. Ofelia #2
She nods. “It’s going to be a long day.” Taking a deep breath, she glances at me across the table.
“The last time Roman made a phone call like that from Miami, he was going in to rescue you and Masha. That was a long day, too.” She smiles at me.
“But it ended well. Let’s hope this one does, too.
” She looks at me more closely. “You don’t seem surprised at Roman’s news. ”
“I’m not.” I’m unable to stop myself from smiling. “Alexei called this morning.”
“He did?” Darya’s legs drop from the chair, and her entire face lights up. “Oh, Ofelia.” She comes around the table and hugs me close. “Oh, thank goodness,” she murmurs into my hair. “I’m so relieved. And happy. For you both.”
“Thank you.” I cling to her, unable to prevent the tears coming down my face. “They’re happy tears,” I manage, half laughing, when she wipes them away with her shawl. “I’m fine, honestly. I just—I wanted to tell you before Benny comes out for breakfast.”
“Tell her what before I come out?”
We both swing around to find Benny standing on the stone steps.
There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his clothes are hanging off his already lean figure.
I’ve grown accustomed, since the explosion, to the absence of his smile, but today his grim face hits me especially hard.
It’s difficult not to feel guilty about being happy when Lars is still in a coma.
Benny spends every day at his bedside. He’s there so often the nurses have stopped enforcing visiting hours.
More than once I’ve left him at the hospital late at night, asleep in the chair beside Lars’s bed, his head resting on Lars’s unresponsive body.
“Did something happen?” He looks between us, fear rising in his eyes. “I knew I shouldn’t have left the hospital—”
“No, no—Lars is fine,” I say instantly, crossing the terrace to take his hands. They’re cold and limp in my own, as if his own life force is weak. “There’s been no news from the hospital,” I say gently. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you.” I lead him to the table, and Darya pulls out a chair for him.
“Have some coffee,” she says, pouring him a cup.
“And eat something.” I push a plate of brioche col tuppo in front of him.
Benny stares at both the cup and the pastries without touching either. “They said they’d stop sedation after ten days,” he says hollowly. “Today is day ten.”
Has it really been only ten days since the bomb on the yacht?
It feels like an eternity.
“If he doesn’t wake up after they stop the sedation,” he says in that same horribly empty voice, “then the chances are he never will.”
“Dr. Moretti also said it’s completely normal for that process to take anything from a few days to over a week,” I say reassuringly. “And she won’t make the decision to take him off sedation until after she’s run tests today.”
“It’s good of her to have stayed so long,” Darya says. “I understand she’s very much in demand.”
Benny and I exchange a glance, and to my relief, the ghost of his old smile crosses his face. “She’s certainly in demand by Juicy Jack Bellini.”
He breaks off a piece of brioche and puts it in his mouth, the first time I’ve seen him eat for days. “Not that I’m complaining. He can take her to watch the sunset from the hospital roof as many times as he likes, so long as it keeps her here and focused on Lars.”
“Jack turned up with an entire picnic two nights ago,” I add for Darya’s benefit, trying to keep Benny distracted for at least long enough that he gets some food down. “Antipasto platter, aperitivos, the whole thing. The nurses were still talking about it when we got there the next morning.”
“Juicy Jack, huh?” She looks between the two of us, smiling. “Do you two have nicknames for everyone?”
“For most people.” I pour Benny some orange juice, watching him from the corner of my eye. “Although please don’t ask me what he calls Papa—”
“DILF,” Benny interjects, prompting a cringing head shake from me and laughter from Darya. “Which he totally is,” he says in an aside to her, with a halfway decent impression of his habitual wickedness.
“What about Alexei?” Darya asks, putting another pastry on his plate when he isn’t looking.
“Pirate Boy,” Benny and I say in unison, which makes her laugh again.
“Oh,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “That’s so good.”
“Benny used to play the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song every time Alexei turned up somewhere,” I tell her. “Until Alexei worked out what was going on. I don’t think we ever worked one out for Mickey,” I go on hastily, aware of how close we are to the dangerous topic of Lars.
“Well, you didn’t.” Benny smirks, one of the most heartening sights I’ve seen for days.
“No!” I sit back in mock sulkiness. “Are you telling me that you and Lourdes nicknamed someone without me?”
“Trust me.” His smirk has an evil edge. “It is not a nickname you want to hear. Either of you.” He waves his fork between Darya and me.
Before I can press him, Masha’s high, clear voice comes from behind me. “They call him Mick the Di—”
“Masha!” Darya leaps up from the table, her face reddening, as I start to laugh.
Masha, her hair still mussed from sleep, slumps onto one of the chairs and yawns widely. “Well, they do,” she says. “Don’t you?” she says directly to Benny.
He shakes his head, grinning. “Where on earth did you hear that?”
She shrugs. “My flamenco teacher sometimes uses Lourdes to play guitarra for our classes, but she is very annoying, no, because she spends so much time on the movi, talking to Mickey or about Mickey. But now, she is gone, no?” She looks around as if just noticing Lourdes’s absence for the first time. “Why?”
“Lourdes and Mickey broke up,” I say gently. “She’s gone back to Granada.”
“Why?” Masha asks again, with her customary bluntness.
I’m still searching for some kind of excuse when Benny answers for me. “Lourdes didn’t know about your family business,” he says dryly.
I wince, exchanging a rather worried glance with Darya. But I should know my sister better than to imagine her unable to handle such directness.
“Ah.” Masha nods wisely. “Claro. I think it is better, then, that she is gone. Qué?” she says in answer to Darya’s frown, picking up a brioche. “Benny, he knows about our family, but still he is here, no? People either understand or they do not. Es lo que hay.” It is what it is.
We all stare at her bent head as she eats. “Es lo que hay,” Benny repeats. “I like that, Masha.”
“Por supuesto,” she says disdainfully. Of course. She looks surprised when we all laugh.
“It is what it is.” He takes a deep breath. “I think that is my motto today,” he says, giving me a strained smile as he pushes his unfinished breakfast away.
“Yes.” I meet Darya’s eyes across the table and see my own sudden chill pass like a shadow over her face, there and gone again before anyone has a chance to ask why.
We both know that whatever is happening in Miami tonight, it will likely involve bullets, blood, and the men we both love risking their lives.
Es lo que hay, I think.
If Lars wakes up—or if he does not. If tonight goes well—or if it does not.
I think of the Sicilian wedding Alexei suggested.
Apart from how utterly inappropriate it would be to raise the topic under the current circumstances, I also feel as if it’s a golden good luck charm, a nugget of future happiness that is somehow a shield against the darkness we are all facing.
I want to hold it deep inside, protect it, in the hope that it keeps us all safe.
“Masha,” I say, “you weren’t here when we were talking about Alexei’s nickname. Do you know what it is?”
“No.” Her face lights up at his name. “?Qué es?”
“Pirate Boy,” we chorus, and she laughs, clapping her hands delightedly.
“And for Lars?” She looks around the table. “How is he called?”
There’s a moment of silence, then Benny and I look at each other. “The Viking.” I hear Benny’s voice catch the same as mine does.
“Vikings are strong.” Masha nods gravely. “And they fight very hard.” She covers Benny’s hand with her own, an unusual gesture from someone rarely given to outward displays of affection. “This is a good name, I think.”
He nods, clearly not trusting himself to speak.
I see Darya picking at her pastry, clearly taut with worry over the coming night. See the way Masha watches us all, her eyes dark and inscrutable, hiding the emotions I know she keeps deep inside.
I feel my own tension mounting, the unknown future both tantalizing and terrifying.
It is what it is.
But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t fucking terrify me.