Page 151 of Pretty Little Lies

Never Cairo Black, because even his voice drips arrogance.

While Torin is a petty dickhead, he knows his match. Cairo keeps that shit under lock and key.

“Levi,” I mutter softly. “We’re in a hospital and Dad’s really sick.”

He ignores me, eyes still pinned on Cairo. “Tryin’ to convert her over to Emilio Wildes’s cause, huh?”

Cairo’s shadowed features twist. “Convert her over? Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”

“Iwarnedher away.”

“Which means you were so pussy-whipped that you just let her walk all over you. I know we haven’t tried to take South Shore in a while, but don’t tell me your weaknesses, or I might take advantage of them.”

“Keep your Frank Sinatra ass in Wharf Bay,” Levi grounds out. “You got bigger fish to fry with Matteo De Leon and his attempts to take your daddy’s Titan seat. You better hope he kills you if he beats you, because I’ll do it myself if that motherfucker ends up at the table.”

The corner of Cairo’s lips lifts into a ghost of a smirk before disappearing just as quickly. “Noted. Anything else?”

“Yeah, leave. Before I make you a patient here.”

“Bay Astor?” My neck snaps to a middle-aged nurse in lavender scrubs, and my heart sinks. I’m here because of Dad, not because of Cairo Black and his rivalry with our town.

I step toward her, and she motions for me to follow, bringing me into the room I was pacing only a few moments ago, and into the ear-piercing sound of beeping monitors and cleaning products.

“Your father is doing okay,” she tells me within the privacy of the room, closing the door behind her as I just stare blankly at Dad.

He’s sleeping, tucked in under a thick white blanket and in a blue hospital gown. He looks small and fragile, not the big guy who could put food away like nothing. He used to use me as a weight when I was a kid, and before the stroke, we used to arm wrestle, just so he could show me that he wasn’t an old man.

“We have him on thrombolytic,” she continues softly. “It’s a drug that breaks up blood clots. The doctors did some tests on him to see what may have caused the second stroke…I heard he had one recently?”

“Yes,” I croak out. “Is he…” My jaw aches as I force it for the millionth time not to tremble because I will not cry.

“We expect him to make a full recovery, but it takes time. This set him back, and these things are hard to determine with so many factors in play.”

“How long are you keeping him?”

“A few days for right now. We’ll see how he’s doing when he wakes up. Does your mother—” I shake my head, shoving back thoughts of her and her selfish suicide. I can’t feel sorry for her when she left us all behind.

I feel sorry for my sisters.

“I’ll be taking care of him,” I promise, not to her, but to myself. I got too deep into this double agent bullshit that I haven’t been working with Dad that much. I’ve neglected some of his therapy. Even though someone still comes to the house to do it, I still wanted him to have a little more to bring that competitive side out.

“The doctor will be coming in shortly to discuss everything with you.”

I glance over my shoulder to give her a reassuring grin of appreciation and silentget the hell outso I can get my fucking head on straight.

She takes the hint, quietly leaving the room when I glance at the dry-erase board and see that her name isMarsha.

Like the Brady Bunch.

I never watched it much, but all I can think of is a perfect family, two parents, and a bunch of hippie kids.

I stand at Dad’s bedside, words clogged in my throat as I stare at him. We have a lot of unspoken business. The whole Emilio Wildes thing, questions about my real mother and what kind of person she was. Am I like her, was she like Emilio or was she kind?

“You can’t…” I twist my head back and forth, because if Dad dies on me, I’ll be crushed. I won’t be able to survive it. “It’s not an option. Do you hear me, Dad, not an option. You will get out of this room, we’ll work on your speech and walking, and youwillbe on your feet again, wreaking havoc at the docks. I’m not doing this alone. You owe me.”

He owes me jack shit but a reason why he still hasn’t told me about Emilio. I can understand wanting to protect me from him, the man’s a fucking clown, but to learn like this…I was completely blindsided.

“Mae’s downstairs eating cake…probably has two pieces,” I tell Dad. “It’s late, and she’s going to be up for hours.”

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