Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Marina
Dr. Marchetti is older than I expected. Silver hair. Steady hands. A leather bag that looks like it's seen decades of emergencies.
He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't look around my apartment with judgment. Just nods once and says, "Show me."
I lead him to the bedroom.
He takes one look at Dante and gets to work.
"You can wait outside," he says. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact. "I'll come find you when I'm done."
I back out of the room. Close the door.
And then I wait.
The hour that follows is the longest of my life.
I pace. I sit. I stand. I pace again.
I scrub the blood from my hallway floor with dish soap and a sponge because I can't just sit there doing nothing. The blood comes up easier than I thought. Leaves faint pink stains on the hardwood that I'll probably never get out.
I scrub anyway.
When the hallway is clean, I move to the living room. Wipe down the doorframe where Dante's bloody hand smeared across the wood. Clean the spots on the carpet near the entrance.
My apartment smells weird now.
I open a window.
Then I scrub whatever is left outside my door. There's only blood out of my apartment. Where he fell. And that's good. We don't need curious neighbors right now. I get in and close the door.
I stand by the window for a moment, letting the air wash over me. Letting it remind me that the world outside still exists.
The bedroom door opens.
I spin around.
Dr. Marchetti steps out. He's rolled up his sleeves. There's blood on his forearms, but his expression is calm.
"He'll live," he says.
The words hit me hard. I grab the back of my couch to steady myself.
"I’ve removed the bullet. It didn't hit anything vital. Missed the kidney by about two centimeters." He shakes his head. "Lucky."
Lucky. Right.
"He lost a significant amount of blood," Dr. Marchetti continues. "But not enough to require a transfusion. His body will replenish it on its own over the next few weeks."
I nod. Keep nodding. Like a bobblehead that can't stop.
"I've cleaned and sutured the wound. Changed the dressing. He's stable for now."
"For now?"
"The next forty-eight hours are critical." Dr. Marchetti sets his bag on my kitchen counter. Opens it. Starts pulling out supplies. "Infection is the biggest risk. Gunshot wounds are dirty. Even with antibiotics, there's always a chance."
He lines up bottles and packages on my counter. Gauze. Medical tape. Pills in orange bottles. A small vial of clear liquid.
"These are antibiotics." He taps one bottle. "Two pills, twice a day, with food. Don't skip doses."
I grab a notepad from my junk drawer. Start writing.
"These are for pain." Another bottle. "One pill every six hours as needed. They'll make him drowsy. That's normal."
I write faster.
"The wound needs to be cleaned and redressed every twelve hours. I'll show you how before I leave." He holds up the gauze. "Keep it dry. No showers for at least a week. Sponge baths only."
Sponge baths.
I'm going to give Dante Castellani sponge baths.
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
"Watch for signs of infection," Dr. Marchetti says. "Increased redness around the wound. Swelling. Discharge that's yellow or green. Fever above 101. If you see any of those, call me immediately."
He hands me a card. Plain white. Just a phone number.
"Any time," he says. "Day or night."
I take the card. Add it to my notes.
"He shouldn't move for at least three days. After that, short walks to the bathroom. Nothing strenuous for at least two weeks." Dr. Marchetti closes his bag. "He'll want to push it. Don't let him."
Don't let him.
Like I have any control over what Dante does.
"Questions?" Dr. Marchetti asks.
A thousand. A million.
Why did he come here? Why my door? Why after two years of nothing?
But those aren't questions for the doctor.
"How long until he wakes up?" I ask instead.
"A few hours. Maybe longer. His body needs rest." Dr. Marchetti picks up his bag. "When he does wake up, keep him calm. No sudden movements. And make sure he drinks water. Lots of it."
I write it down. Water. Lots.
"I'll check on him in two days," Dr. Marchetti says. "Unless you call before then."
"Two days."
"He should be stable by then. If everything goes well."
If.
Dr. Marchetti moves toward the door. Pauses. Looks back at me.
"You did good," he says. "Keeping pressure on the wound. Keeping him warm. A lot of people would have panicked."
I did panic. I'm still panicking. But I don't say that.
"Thank you," I say instead.
He nods. Opens the door. Steps into the hallway.
"Two pills, twice a day," he says over his shoulder. "Don't forget."
Then he's gone.
I stand in my living room. Alone.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear the clock on my wall ticking. Can hear the faint sound of traffic from the street below. Can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I look down at my notepad.
Antibiotics. Pain meds. Wound care. Signs of infection. No showers. Lots of water.
I'm going to take care of him.
The realization settles over me like a weight.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask for him to show up at my door bleeding. Didn't ask for him to collapse in my hallway. Didn't ask for any of this.
Two years. Two years I've spent rebuilding my life. Building something normal. Something safe. Something that doesn't involve men with bullet holes and doctors who don't ask questions and blood on my floors.
And now he's here. In my bed. In my apartment. In my life.
I hate him.
The thought rises up sharp and sudden. I hate him for showing up. For bleeding on my floor. For making me call Sophia. For dragging me back into a world I've spent two years trying to escape.
I hate him for sitting at my hospital bed for days and then leaving when I told him to.
I hate him for leaving.
I hate him for coming back.
I look at the bedroom door. Closed. Silent.
He's in there. Unconscious. Helpless. Completely dependent on me.
And I can't say any of this. Can't scream it. Can't throw things. Can't demand answers.
Because he's unconscious. Because he almost died. Because I'm the one who saved him.
I saved him.
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—"
"I'm just telling you what the doctor said." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "Believe me, I'd love nothing more than to have him gone. But if you move him now and he dies, that's on you."
More voices in the background. Sophia's muffled response to someone. Then she's back.
"We can't let you get involved in this."
I laugh. It sounds wrong. Hollow.
"Sophia. He bled on my floor. I held towels against his gunshot wound. I let a mafia doctor operate in my bedroom." I close my eyes. "I'm already involved."
"That's not—" She stops. Starts again. "This isn't your world. It shouldn't be your problem."
I want to be angry.
I try to find it. That hot, righteous fury that used to come so easily. The anger that kept me going through physical therapy. Through the nightmares. Through the long months of rebuilding myself into someone who could function.
But it won't come.
Because she's right. This isn't my world. It shouldn't be my problem.
And none of this is Sophia's fault.
She didn't choose to be born into this life. Didn't choose to fall in love with Lorenzo Sartori. Didn't choose any of the violence and blood and darkness that came with it.
Well. Maybe she chose Lorenzo. But by then, she was already in too deep.
And I knew. I knew some of it, even before everything happened. I knew her family had connections. Knew there were things she didn't talk about. Knew the expensive gifts and the bodyguards and the way people looked at her sometimes meant something.
I knew, and I stayed her friend anyway.
Because she was Sophia. My Sophia. The girl who braided my hair at sleepovers and cried with me when my first boyfriend dumped me and held my hand at my grandmother's funeral.
The girl who called me every day when I was in the hospital. Who sent flowers and books and stupid stuffed animals. She's still that girl.
She's also Lorenzo Sartori's wife. Part of a world I can't understand and don't want to.
But she's still my best friend.
"Sophia." I keep my voice steady. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. None of this is fine."