Chapter MARCELLO
The first thing that cuts through the void is the insistent beep of monitors. Too rhythmic for hell. Too cold for peace. Which means one thing—I'm alive. Which means I must be in a hospital.
Fucking perfect. I've always said hospitals were one step away from hell—looks like I was right. Pain follows the beeping. Like a thousand knives dragging across every nerve ending. My head is the worst—throbbing, burning, a white-hot scream under my skull.
So, not dead then. Not yet anyway.
Memories return next, disjointed and jagged.
The parking garage.
Casimo.
Betrayal.
Gunfire.
Luciano…?
Where the fuck was Luciano?
Blackness swallows me again before I can string it all together.
A shrill voice rips me back. I don't know how much time later. "…ssing the latest fashion show."
Mina.
Hell. This is hell. A version where I'm paralyzed and forced to listen to Mina ramble about runway bullshit. I try to groan, but no sound escapes me. Neither can I lift my hand to wave her away. I'd take another bullet to the brain just to shut her up.
Blessedly, I fade again.
A soothing, moist wash towel gently and steadily wipes over my forehead—definitely not Mina—relieving some of the agony.
"You will be fine, Mr. Orsi," a soothing voice assures me. She is calm and real, a woman different from the ones I know. I can't detect any sharp edges in her tone or greed behind the words.
Just… quiet care. With a sigh, I let the voice carry me back into the dark.
I don't know how long I'm out this time, but when I come back, I hear her voice again; it flows like honey.
"You're not missing anything today, Mr. Orsi, it's raining and cold outside.
I don't know if you are into football, but the Mustangs beat the Orcas.
I should probably ask Luciano what you like.
I don't know what he talks to you about, but I'm sure it's not something about planting roses.
Unless it's on someone's grave that is, or…
oh, I'm sorry, that was probably highly inappropriate.
" A small, nervous giggle follows, and I want—need—to see the face that laugh belongs to.
She's real and talking to me like I'm a man, not a monster.
I'm also relieved to hear that Luciano is still alive.
I must have drifted off again. Her voice lures me back, "There, that should fill your stomach.
" A slight noise, but nothing happens. "I wish I could bring you some real food.
Not yet, but soon. I promise. In the meantime, you can think about what you would like.
You strike me as a steak guy. Maybe a good rare to medium filet mignon? With a wild mushroom sauce?"
Fuck, I might not be able to blink or raise a finger, but my mouth waters at her words…
The next thing that penetrates my consciousness is Luciano's voice: "… vet the doctors who will perform the surgery."
That's more like it. He's running point on my care. Good.
But I tune him out, searching for her again. My nurse. The voice that soothes where morphine can't.
I picture her older, like Zia Rosa in her prime. Round, warm, probably wears orthopedic shoes, and bakes a mean lasagna. The voice doesn't match, but I don't trust my brain enough to paint a clearer image—not yet.
"Invite their families to a luncheon, make it seem hospital-sponsored," Luciano says. "Keep them there until the surgery is over. I'll make sure the team knows their loved ones are at our mercy."
Now that's leadership. I would nod if I could. For now, I fade again—grateful the machine is still moving without me.
"Got it, consigliere." If I'm not mistaken, that's Andrea answering. One of my underbosses. Good.
Blackness lures me back to its depths.
The cooling sensation of a moist towel wakes me.
"Tomorrow is a big day for you, Mr. Orsi.
The doctors are going to close your cranium.
They were going to graft it with donor bone, but Luciano insisted you'd want titanium, so that's what they're going to do.
I think I agree with Luciano on this." Her light giggle fills my head, chases the cold from my body, and makes me even forget about Casimo and his betrayal. About death breathing down my neck.
She's right, though. At least I won't have to worry if another idiot shoots me in the head, well, at least as long as he aims for the same spot.
"After that, the doctors say they'll slowly start to wake you up. Your other wounds are healing quite nicely as well. You'll probably need a cane for a few weeks, but Doctor Waspo says you'll be good as new."
Her voice soothes me back into the nothingness. I feel myself drift—drift, drift—but then a small, startled cry from her rips me back.
Danger!
My instincts scream, even if my body won't move. Someone's in the room—someone who is not supposed to be.
I've survived too much, killed too many, to mistake the cold breath of threat curling through the air.
And again, where the fuck is Luciano?