Page 16 of Wounded King
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?
The lights are dimmed, a few streaks of moonlight slip through the closed slats of the window blinds, painting pale silver lines across the room and him. The machines hum softly, their volume turned low. I silenced the TV long after Luciano went to the cafeteria. The guards are stationed outside. My favorite part of my shift has finally arrived; it's just Marcello and me.
I move quietly, slowly, afraid that if I make too much noise, the spell might break, and he'll vanish. My steps feel heavier than they should, like I'm trespassing in a space that was never meant for me. Which I'm painfully aware that I am.
Feeling like a ghost haunting a man still tethered to life, I check the lining of the bandage on his arm. He doesn't move. He never does. But I swear his skin is warmer today, his breathing more even. A sign, maybe. Or just my imagination.
I dip two fingers into the jar of Vaseline and gently apply a fresh layer to keep the skin moisturized beneath the dressing. It's routine, part of the job—at least it was. But it stopped feeling clinical a long time ago.
Before I realize it, my fingertips trail along the curve of his bicep—just a featherlight stroke. I tell myself I'm checking for inflammation. I tell myself a lot of things lately.
His muscles are firm even in stillness, the shape of strength carved into flesh. Dark, intricate ink patterns move along the muscles, hiding the thick sinew and strong veins. My stomach flutters. Guilt coils tightly in my chest, a slow-burning flame of shame I can't seem to put out.
He's not mine. He never will be.
All I'll ever have are these stolen moments—whispers of a life I'm not allowed to imagine. He doesn't even know my name. Doesn't know how I've sat by his side when the machines beeped too fast, or how I've whispered to him when his fever spiked, or how I read to him from the newspaper just to fill the silence. How I keep a blanket on him at all times, even when the room is warm, just in case he might feel cold.
I have no right to touch him like this. No right to sit here in the dark and pretend I matter. But if there's even a sliver of comfort I can give him—if he somehow feels that he's not alone—the thought soothes my conscience enough to stay just a little longer.
I tuck the blanket more firmly around his waist and lean forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You're not alone," I whisper, a confession to no one.
And then?—
The peace fractures.
Subdued shots ring out—not the loud banging from movies, no, these are thudded and muffled. A scream pierces the corridor. Everything happens too fast. I'm yanked from the moment, shoved hard to the side. My body slams into the narrow space between the bed and the monitor stand. Pain explodes along my side. I cry out, but it's lost in the chaos.
My head snaps against cold metal, blurring my vision. I blink rapidly until a pair of black slacks and polished loafers enter my field of view. Instinctively, I know whoever that person is, he has come to kill my patient. I don't know where my courage comes from, but I roll myself forward and, grabbing an ankle, I pull, trying to get whoever this killer is off his feet.
"Fuck," he grunts out, but keeps his balance.
His other foot comes forward to kick me, and in a last, desperate attempt to stop him, I bite down.
"Fuck!" He yells this time.
