Julia
Chapter Thirty Three
The waiting room feels like some sort of anomaly of time.
Hours pass. People move through. Nurses come and go. A man in scrubs crosses the hallway with a clipboard in his hand. A woman cries quietly into her phone near the far wall. Somewhere beyond the double doors, machines breathe and beep and measure life in numbers none of us can see.
But somehow, everything stays the same.
Same chairs.
Same walls.
Same awful light.
Same closed doors between us and Dante.
I sit beside Ricardo with my hands folded in my lap because I do not know what else to do with them. They are clean now.
They do not feel clean.
Ricardo sits close enough that his leg touches mine. He has not moved away from me since we came back from the private room, except when Mario pulled him aside for a few low words near the hall. Even then, he kept me in his line of sight.
Now his hand rests over mine.
Heavy and warm.
Too still.
That is how I know how badly he is holding himself together.
Ricardo is a man who knows how to keep still, but this stillness feels unnatural. Like it's forced.
So he sits beside me and waits.
His son is behind those doors.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and I see him on my apartment floor again. His gun still in his hand. His body between mine and the room. His mouth tight with pain as I press my hands against his side.
Stay down, he told me.
Even bleeding, he was still thinking about me.
My throat closes.
Ricardo’s thumb moves once across my knuckles.
“Breathe, cuore mio.”
I pull in air.
It shakes.
Across from us, Victoria sits with Mario’s jacket draped over her shoulders. She got a change of clothes too, but everybody else is still in their formal clothes. That seems unnatural too. Like a perfect night gone terribly wrong.
Mario’s hand covers it Victoria’s when he sits beside her.
He has been standing more than sitting.
Now, for the first time in several minutes, he is still.
Lorenzo stands near the corner with his phone in his hand, not speaking.
Diego leans against the wall with his arms crossed, all charm stripped from his face.
Twins Matteo and Tomasso sit side by side, both bent forward, elbows on their knees.
Edoardo and Alessio stand near the hallway like they cannot bring themselves to sit.
The Contis fill the waiting room without making noise.
That makes it worse somehow.
There should be shouting. Demands. Orders. Something.
Instead, there is waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
I look down at Ricardo’s shirt. The blood I left on him earlier has dried in dark streaks near his chest. I did that. I grabbed him with Dante’s blood still on my hands.
He should change. The thought moves through me dully.
My mouth trembles, so I look away before I cry again.
I am so tired of crying.
I did not know a person could cry this much and still have anything left. My head hurts. My throat aches. My skin feels too tight. The borrowed sweater scratches lightly at my wrists. The clothes are soft, but they are not mine, and that should be the least important thing in the world.
It is not.
Nothing feels like mine anymore.
My apartment is full of bodies and bullets.
My dress is in a hospital bag somewhere, soaked with Dante’s blood.
My phone is gone, or with police, or still inside the apartment. I do not even know.
And Dante is—
I stop the thought before it finishes.
He is still in surgery.
That is all.
He is in surgery.
He made it to surgery.
Victoria said that mattered.
I hold onto it because there is nothing else to hold.
Mario rises suddenly.
My whole body jolts.
Ricardo’s hand tightens over mine.
But Mario is only looking at a nurse crossing the hall. She passes us without stopping.
The disappointment that moves through the room is almost physical.
Mario sits again.
Victoria reaches for his hand this time.
He gives it to her.
Nobody speaks.
After a while, Tomasso stands and walks a few feet away. Matteo follows him with his eyes but lets him go. Tomasso stops near the vending machines, stares at them, then turns and comes back without buying anything.
Diego watches the double doors.
Lorenzo watches Ricardo.
Ricardo watches nothing.
That frightens me more than the rest.
His eyes are fixed ahead, but I do not think he is seeing the doors. His face is composed, as if every feeling has been locked down so hard that the lock itself might crack.
I lean closer without thinking about it.
His gaze shifts to me immediately.
“Are you sick again?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Cold?”
“A little.”
He takes off his jacket before I can protest and settles it around my shoulders.
It smells like him.
Expensive soap. Hospital air now. The faint trace of his cologne beneath everything else.
My fingers curl into the edge of it.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His hand returns to mine.
Another hour might pass.
Or ten minutes.
I’m no longer keeping track.
At some point, Victoria moves to sit on my other side. She does not say anything at first. She only places a bottle of water in my hand.
“Drink,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“Drink,” she repeats.
I take a sip because it is easier than refusing her.
The water is too cold, which feels nice against my raw throat.
Victoria watches me until she is satisfied, then looks toward the doors again.
“He’ll be furious when he wakes up,” she says softly.
My breath catches.
Ricardo’s eyes shift to her.
Victoria keeps her eyes forward. “At all of us. At the hospital. At the fact that anyone made a fuss.”
A broken sound comes out of me.
Almost a laugh. Almost pain.
Ricardo’s mouth moves, but it does not become a smile.
“He hates being treated like he is fragile,” Victoria says.
“He is going to hate this,” I whisper.
“Yes.” Her voice softens. “He’ll have to wake up to complain about it.”
I press my fingers against my mouth.
The tears come anyway.
Ricardo lifts my hand and holds it against his chest.
I feel his heartbeat beneath my knuckles.
The double doors open.
Everything stops.
A doctor steps out in blue scrubs, cap still on, mask hanging loose at his throat. There is blood on one sleeve. I see it before I see his face.
Ricardo is on his feet.
So is Mario.
Everyone else rises around them, but Ricardo reaches the doctor first.
“Dante Conti,” he says.
The doctor nods. “Mr. Conti?”
“I’m his father.”
“I’m Dr. Kessler. Your son is out of surgery.”
My hand flies to my mouth.
The doctor continues in a voice way too calm. “He lost a significant amount of blood. The bullet caused minor internal damage, but we were able to repair it. He required transfusions, and we’ll be watching him very closely over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
Ricardo’s voice is rough. “But he made it.”
The doctor nods. “He made it through surgery.”
Victoria makes a sound beside me and covers her face with both hands.
Mario’s head bows for one second.
Lorenzo turns away sharply.
I cannot breathe.
He made it.
Dante made it.
The words move through me slowly, like molasses. He is alive. He is still hurt. Still unconscious.
But he made it.
My knees nearly give.
Diego catches my elbow before I realize I have swayed.
“You’re all right,” he says quietly.
I nod, though I am not sure he is right.
Ricardo is still focused on the doctor. “Can I see him?”
“Yes. He’s being settled in recovery now. Only one or two for a few minutes. He’s unconscious, and he will likely remain that way for a while. The breathing tube is out, but he’s heavily sedated.”
“I understand.”
The doctor looks around the room, taking in the family, the tension, the way no one has relaxed even after the only good news we have had all night.
“His condition is serious,” he says. “But he is young, strong, and he got here quickly. That’s all in his favor.”
My eyes close.
I see my hands pressing down.
I see Dante’s face going white.
I see the paramedics lifting him.
He got here quickly.
That helped him.
I pull the words into myself before guilt can swallow them whole.
Ricardo turns then.
His eyes find mine.
The room seems to move back around us.
“Come with me,” he says.
I freeze.
“What?”
“Come with me.”
I shake my head immediately. “You should go. He’s your son.”
Ricardo steps toward me. “Yes.”
I shake my head again, harder this time. “Ricardo, no. This is family. You should have that moment with him. I can wait.”
His face changes, taking on that stubborn look I know so well.
“You are coming with me.”
I stare at Ricardo through fresh tears.
“Maybe he doesn’t want me there.”
“He does.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. I know my son.”
The words are quiet, but the meaning is loud.
The anger between them. The hurt. The silence Dante has been using like a weapon. The way he still walked through fire for me without hesitating.
Ricardo holds out his hand.
I look at it.
Then at the doors.
I take Ricardo’s hand.
His fingers close around mine at once.
The doctor leads us through the double doors.
The hallway beyond is not as quiet as the waiting room. Nurses walk on squeaky shoes, machines beep behind curtains, paper rustles.
Ricardo walks beside me, but his hand stays firm around mine.
I feel the tension in him with every step.
His son is close now.
We turn into a recovery area, then down another short hall. The doctor stops outside a room where the walls are all glass.
“He’s here,” he says. “A few minutes for now.”
Ricardo nods.
The doctor steps away.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then Ricardo steps through where the large glass door is open.
Dante lies in the bed.
The sight of him steals every thought from my head.
He is too still.
Dante is never this still. Even when he is quiet, there is always something alive in him. A restless foot. A shift of his shoulders. The quick movement of his eyes when he is surveying a room.
Now he lies beneath a white blanket, skin pale against the pillow, dark hair mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks. An IV runs into one arm. Monitors glow beside the bed. A clear tube rests beneath his nose. There are wires on his chest beneath the hospital gown.
He looks younger.
That hurts so badly I almost make a sound.
Ricardo lets go of my hand.
For one terrifying second, I think he is going to fall.
He does not.
He walks to the side of the bed with slow, careful steps, as if any sudden movement might disturb whatever fragile thread keeps Dante here.
I stay near the door.
I cannot make myself go closer.
Ricardo reaches the bed and looks down at his son.
His hand lifts.
Stops.
Then settles gently on Dante’s hair.
The gesture is so tender that I have to press my fist to my mouth.
“Figlio mio,” he whispers.
I look away because it feels private, but there is nowhere else to look. The machines. The blanket. The pale hand resting outside it. The bandage beneath the gown that I cannot see but know is there.
My fault.
The thought rises before I can stop it.
Ricardo turns his head, as if he heard it.
“Come here.”
I shake my head.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Julia, quit being so stubborn.”
His voice is gentle, but there is steel beneath it. He holds out his hand again.
I take one step.
Then another.
The room feels too small. The air feels too thick. My legs carry me to the other side of the bed, though I do not remember telling them to.
Up close, Dante looks even paler.
There is a faint scrape near his jaw. A bruise beginning near his shoulder. His mouth is relaxed in a way I have never seen.
Tears slide down my face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Ricardo’s eyes lift to mine over the bed.
He does not correct me this time.
Maybe because he knows I am not ready to stop saying it.
Maybe because this room is not for arguments.
Dante does not move.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm.
I reach for his hand, then stop above it.
“What if I hurt him?”
“You won’t.”
My fingers tremble as I touch his.
His hand is warm.
I did not realize I was afraid it would not be.
A sob slips out before I can catch it.
I wrap my fingers around his carefully, avoiding the IV, the tape, anything that looks breakable.
“Dante,” I whisper. “It’s Julia.”
Nothing.
Of course there is nothing.
He is unconscious. Sedated. Hurt.
Alive.
I force myself to remember the last word.
Ricardo’s hand remains in Dante’s hair.
I look at him.
His face is turned down toward his son, and for once there is no mask. No polish. No old-world elegance. No command.
Only a father standing beside a hospital bed, touching his son’s hair reverently.
“Dante,” Ricardo says. “You did well. You protected her. You survived. But your job is not done. Now you have to stay. Do you understand me? You stay.”
The monitor answers in beeps.
Dante does not.
Ricardo leans down and presses his mouth to Dante’s forehead.
“Resta con me, figlio mio,” he whispers against Dante’s skin. “Hai ancora troppa vita davanti. Non lasciarmi adesso.”
I close my eyes.
Fresh tears fall.
Stay with me, my son. You still have too much life ahead of you. Don’t leave me now.