Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty Five
Olivia
An hour crawls by under the fluorescent light.
I sit on the edge of a vinyl chair, hands wrapped around a paper cup I’m not drinking. The coffee downstairs tasted like cardboard, but it gave me something to hold.
Across from me, Luca sits forward with his elbows on his knees, unmoving. Elena stays beside him, one hand on his back, soothing.
Giovanni paces a narrow line, phone to his ear, voice low. Bianca has a stack of tiny water bottles and keeps pressing them into people’s hands.
Nico’s in a corner chair with a gauze pad taped over his forearm. Turns out, not all the blood was Antonio’s. He’d gotten pretty scraped up, too. His eyes are open but far away.
Two uniforms came up about half an hour ago and asked for Nico by name.
He went with them to a side room, accompanied by Roberto.
He came back twenty minutes later, jaw locked.
They left without speaking to anyone else.
He didn’t tell anyone what he said. I don’t know if what he told them was true or not. I don’t know if I want to know.
The TV on the wall runs a loop of weather and headlines without sound. No one looks at it. Every time the OR doors swing, everyone’s head turns. Then we settle again.
Caterina sits next to me. Her knee bounces until she clamps a palm over it to make it stop. When a nurse walks by, Caterina stands like she’s going to speak, then sinks back down with a tight “thanks” when the nurse says she doesn’t have news.
“I hate this part,” she whispers.
“I know.” I don’t, not like this, but I say it anyway.
She nods, staring at the double doors. “He’ll be fine,” she adds, like she’s reminding herself.
I glance at Roberto. He stands apart, phone in his hand, not using it.
He looks over, and my chest pulls tight.
He holds my gaze for a beat that feels like a held breath, then looks away to Luca and says something I can’t hear.
The line of his mouth is firm. He’s steady because everyone needs him steady.
I never pictured this. When I thought “crime family,” I thought shadows and threats and men who slouch in corners.
I didn’t think of a father rubbing a thumb over his son’s shoulder to settle him, or a sister begging the volunteer for a time estimate, or a wife passing out water and telling Nico to sit down because his face is gray.
I didn’t think of family in the literal sense—people who show up, who stay, who count the minutes together, whether it helps or not.
Nico’s leg bounces. Luca reaches over and presses a hand to his knee, murmurs something to him.
Nico nods once and stares harder at the floor.
Bianca takes the empty cup from my hand and swaps it for a fresh water. “Drink,” she says gently, and moves on to Caterina.
I cap and uncap the bottle twice before I take a sip. My stomach doesn’t want it. I make myself swallow anyway.
“Do you need to go?” Caterina asks me under her breath. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m staying,” I say.
“Okay.” She squeezes my fingers once and lets go.
A man in scrubs crosses the hall. Every head turns again. He walks past us to a different group, and the muscles in my neck loosen by a millimeter. This is what we do: tense, release, repeat.
Roberto steps closer to Luca and Elena and murmurs something about the police report. Giovanni answers with a few words that sound like “lawyer” and “later.” The only words that I’ve overheard from anyone are “setup” and “warehouse.”
I try not to picture a warehouse. I try not to picture how Antonio went down. I try not to picture Nico dragging him through a loading bay while bullets snapped. My brain plays it anyway, filling in missing frames with the worst options.
I focus on what I can see. Elena’s hand steady on Luca. Bianca’s soft “hey, sit” when Giovanni’s pacing gets too fast. Caterina’s foot pressing flat to stop the bounce. Roberto’s shoulders squared like a wall between this family and whatever comes down the hall.
The thought hits me hard: they are a family before anything else. It doesn’t absolve anything. It doesn’t make the comps vanish or the headlines untrue. But it’s here in front of me, undeniable.
Caterina leans toward me. “Thank you for staying,” she says.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I answer.
“I do,” she says quietly. “It matters.”
Roberto’s phone buzzes once. He silences it without looking. His eyes lift and find mine again, just for a beat. There’s worry there I recognize and something else I can’t name, not with all these people and fluorescent lighting and the smell of antiseptic stuck in my nose.
I want to go to him. I want to put my arms around him, tell him everything will be okay.
The elevator pings, and Vito steps out, jacket half-zipped, eyes scanning until he spots us. He moves straight to Luca first—quick clasp, a hug for Elena—then to Nico.
“You good?” Vito asks him.
“I’m fine,” Nico says, which isn’t true, but he says it anyway.
Vito turns to me and Caterina. “Cat.” He pulls her in for a fast hug, then gives me a short nod. “Olivia.”
“Hi,” I say.
He looks to Roberto. “Update?”
“Nothing since the last one,” Roberto says. “They’re still working on him.”
Vito’s jaw tightens. He gives Bianca a brief squeeze on the shoulder, then lowers his voice to Luca and Giovanni.
They drift a few steps away, followed by Nico and Roberto, toward the windows.
I can’t hear the words, but I suspect they’re discussing whatever Vito found in the warehouse.
Or maybe they’re planning their revenge.
I don’t know, and I’m too tired to care right now.
Caterina slides down in her chair until the back of her head touches the wall. She closes her eyes. Her hands are folded tight in her lap; the whites of her knuckles show. She isn’t sleeping. Every time a shoe squeaks or the doors swing, her lashes lift a fraction.
I sit with her. I don’t say anything. I count my breaths, sip water that tastes like nothing, and watch the hallway for someone in scrubs who looks like they belong to us.
It takes twenty minutes, maybe less. A surgeon in a cap and mask pulled down around her neck stops at the desk, gets pointed our way, and walks over. Everyone stands without being asked. The men break their huddle in one move and come back.
“Family of Antonio Conti?” she says.
“Yes,” Luca answers.
“I’m Dr. Patel,” she says. “I was part of the team in the OR.” She checks her notes once, then looks up.
“We’ve controlled the bleeding. The bullet tracked across the right upper abdomen and nicked a branch of the hepatic artery.
We repaired the vessel and addressed a small tear in the liver.
He lost a significant amount of blood, but we’ve stabilized his pressure. ”
“Is he out of surgery?” Elena asks.
“They’re closing now,” Dr. Patel says. “He’ll go directly to the ICU. He’s critical. The next twenty-four hours are important—watching for re-bleed, infection, and how his numbers hold.”
“Can we see him?” Bianca asks, voice steady but soft.
“Briefly, once he’s settled in the unit,” he says. “Two at a time to start. He’ll be intubated and sedated.”
Caterina’s voice is small. “Is there anything we can do?”
The doctor’s mouth goes flat. “All we can do is monitor and wait for now.” Then he says, “But if you’d like to do something, the hospital is always grateful for blood donations. For things just like this.”
Luca nods once, decisive. “We’ll do it. All of us.”
The doctor gives a short, approving nod. “I’ll ask the nurse to bring you forms. Someone from ICU will come get you when he’s ready for visitors.” He meets Luca’s eyes. “He’s a strong man. We’ll keep you updated.”
“Thank you,” Luca says.
The surgeon moves back toward the desk. A nurse appears almost immediately with a stack of clipboards. “If you’re donating, fill these out. The donor center is on one.”
“We’re donating,” Luca repeats, taking the whole stack. He starts passing them out. “We’ll go in shifts so someone is up here at all times.”
Papers move from hand to hand. Bianca is already clicking a pen and filling in her name. Elena guides Luca to a chair and hands him a clipboard; he signs without looking down for long.
Giovanni and Vito head for the elevators with their forms. Nico stares at his, then takes the pen from Bianca and starts writing.
Caterina looks at me. “You don’t have to,” she says.
“I can,” I answer. “Type O-negative. Universal donor.”
Her mouth tips into a quick smile. “Of course you are.”
We sit again, pens scratching, the TV still muttering to itself in the corner. It isn’t much, but it’s something to do. Something that might matter when everything else is out of our hands.