Page 15 of Wounded King
I place my palm over Marcello's erratically beating heart and can't stop the anger rushing up inside me. My stomach fills with fury directed at Waspo. He was going to kill Marcello. To protecthisfamily.
My heart picks up Marcello's erratic rhythm. What would I have done in Waspo's place? What would I have done if someone had threatened my family? Them or Marcello?
The answer comes quickly and surprises me: I would have gone to Luciano.
I don't like this idea. At all. I didn't even consider going to the police. What kind of person does this make me?
I don't want to think about it anymore, so I do what I do best: I try to reassure my patient. "It's okay, everything will be okay. Luciano and I won't let anything happen to you." I whisper my promise, very aware of the heat of his flesh pressing against my palm—something I shouldn't notice at all.
Slowly, Marcello's heart rate calms down, his blood pressure following closely behind.
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. Thisishell. 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.
