36. Kingsley
36
KINGSLEY
T his can not be happening.
There’s a flurry of activity in the house following the slamming of car doors and panicked yells.
I’m still sluggish, but my feet find a way to move, and I find myself walking, almost on autopilot, through the house until I see soldiers – dozens of them – hurrying through the house, acting as braces for other wounded soldiers. Blood drips onto the hardwood floors as the men are shown into the den and set against couches and cushions scattered haphazardly on the ground, acting as pillows. So many wounded men, my mouth drops in horror as I watch them come in, one after the other. I spy Helga, who jumps into the fray, discarding her vest and rolling up her sleeves before she starts assessing the wounded.
I stand in silence, surveying the carnage, my mind reeling in disbelief. It’s as though they’ve all just come back from war. There’s nothing else I can compare the scene to.
And then, a loud clap and a thunderous voice orders, “ Quick, quick, quick ” in rapid succession, and the boots of grown men rap against the floor as they hurry into the den carrying Dante. One man clutches his shoulders, while another lifts his legs, his lifeless hands flailing limply at his sides. A line of blood coats the ground he moves over. The men settle him on the only empty space, his desk, before the doctor that treated me earlier hovers over him, stripping his shirt off and cutting away at his fatigues.
I cannot breathe. I cannot see and I cannot feel. I cannot see in front of me. So much blood. So many wounded. And Dante lying there, the life sucked out of him as his blood continues to drain away from his unresponsive body. His body is bleeding in so many different places. It’s bleeding for me. Because of me. There’s so much blood everywhere.
I want to go to him. I want to make sure he’s still breathing. I want to breathe life into him somehow, but Durian rushes into the room, two more doctors on his heels, and I watch as they get to work on Dante, trying to save what’s left of him. I don’t want to linger and make their job harder; they need all the space and patience and presence of mind they can muster to help Dante the way he needs to be helped. So I swallow the overwhelming sense of grief that consumes me, bite back the scream that threatens to escape from my mouth, and retreat quietly from the room. I sit on the bottom stair and wait, listening to the vibration of noises that float through the house. Amongst the yells, the whirring of medical drills and other equipment. I know even then that the team collectively reassembling the wounded will in all likelihood probably do an even better job of healing them than a hospital would. I have no doubt that a man of Dante’s status, from a family as connected as his, would have access to the very best in medical care even from his very own home. That is a given. Yet still, I feel like I have to do more. So I prime myself and I do something I have never done before. I pray. I pray to a higher power and I take comfort in the knowledge that my prayers will be heard and answered. They have to be. Dante has to get better. He has to recover. He has to make it through this thing, one way or another. Because I would hold him to his promise to answer my three questions. He has to. And because Dante is the only person in the world I have left who I consider a friend.
* * *
Many hours pass. Many hours in which I watch the door of the den, waiting anxiously for some news about Dante. People walk in and out, their steps rushed, but I can’t make out anything. Until Durian staggers from the room, his coat long discarded, his hands caked with blood. The blood of his son. He turns, sees me and his eyes flicker with surprise, before he releases a heavy, burdensome sigh and comes to sit beside me on the stairs. He looks down at his hands, clasps his wrists on his knees, and concentrates on a spot on the ground, his thoughts his own.
“He’s going to make it,” he says, yet it sounds to my ears like he is trying to convince himself, rather than me. “He’s going to make it.”
I turn wide eyes to him, as though looking for confirmation that what he said was real. He sounds unsure. Is he unsure?
“He wouldn’t dare go and die on me now,” I tell him, my gaze flickering fiercely to match my words. “He owes me and I aim to collect.”
* * *
Dante is moved to his room as soon as the doctors stabilize him. I pause at the door, where two fierce looking guards regard me suspiciously and won’t allow me access. Although I don’t know all the guards by sight, I am sure I haven’t seen these two before. They are built like tanks and actually look like mercenaries. Come to think of it, the security at the house has more than doubled since the attack on Dante’s men. I still haven’t gathered enough fragments of the story to put together the sequence of events that led to Dante’s body laying riddled with bullets, and I’m not sure I actually want to know the horror of what happened. But I do know that a cold silence descends upon the house as more security detail arrive. There are now guards at every corner of the house, on every level, and they obviously do their job well as they are cautious of every visitor to Dante’s room. In reality, I still don’t know the full magnitude of Dante’s role in the Accardi family. I’m not certain whether it is he or his father who runs the show, but I could say without doubt that Dante is an important part of this well oiled machine.
“Let her in.”
I snap out of my thoughts as the sound of Marco’s voice breaks the silence. He waves me into the room, and I take a step toward the door as the guards take a step away. Marco watches me as I approach Dante’s bed, then reaches up and closes the door behind us.
Dante is asleep in the middle of a huge bed, half sitting up, unaware of the world as it moves around him. There are bandages crisscrossed against his upper torso, around his arm and one around his other wrist. A thin blanket covers up to his hips; I can’t start to guess the damage inflicted upon his legs also. Even as he lays somewhere in that fragile realm between life and death, his body shattered and broken, he is still the most beautiful man I have ever seen. So much so that my breath catches on a gasp as I edge closer to his bedside.
I can feel Marco’s eyes on me as he takes his place at Dante’s other side. I look up at the bag of antibiotics that drips slowly and flows into Dante’s veins, then down at his limp body as he lays peacefully in front of me.
“Doctors should be here soon,” Marco says, tracking my attention to Dante.
“I won’t stay long.”
Marco shakes his head then frowns. “Sorry, I wasn’t asking you to leave. Just talking to myself.”
I swing my eyes away from Dante and settle them on Marco. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I know Marco isn’t my greatest fan, but I hadn’t stopped to consider his pain as he stands by his best friend’s bedside. Not knowing whether or not he would come out of this. Not knowing if there would be any permanent damage. Unsure of anything but the fury he must feel at what has happened and the overwhelming need to seek justice.
“Will he be okay?” My voice is the softest whisper, laced with worry and grief and fear.
Marco lets out a huge breath and fiddles with the blanket covering Dante. It has fallen more to his side and now he rights it, much like a caring older brother would. I wonder about the nature of their relationship. Are they friends, or related? They had seemed more like brothers to me when I’d witnessed their interactions. But I don’t even know for sure if Dante has any siblings.
“He’ll be fine.” He forces the words out with some difficulty, the fear coating his voice spreading like a bad vibration throughout the room.