Page 4 of Rise
3
Antonio
I shieldmy eyes from the blinding early afternoon sunlight streaming in through the top section of the windscreen of my SUV as I reverse into the same hospital parking spot that I've used for the last two months.
Sixty-three days.
That's howlong it's been since Vinny was admitted here. The private urgent care clinic that the boss has a service contract with has taken damn good care of my closest friend. They assure the utmost discretion to their patients, which are comprised mostly of crime families like Romano, as well as politicians, celebrity actors, performance artists and musicians, athletes and other notable individuals who wantto keep the details of their individual health care treatment completely personal, secure and out of the public eye.
This full-service health clinic hires only the best medical, dental, surgical and long-term health care professionals from around the world, so I know there's nothing more anyone can do to help improve Vinny's condition.
He was shot at point-blank range that day Nataliawas taken. It's a miracle he survived at all.
But Vinny is tough.
He held on.
He forced himself to take breath after labored breath so he could send me a text after the men who took Natalia left. He willed himself to stay alive after lying half dead on the airstrip tarmac for close to three hours.
It took seven grueling hours of surgery to stabilize him once he wasadmitted here.
He held his post, potentially watching over Natalia in ways none of us could ever have done.
“Keep fighting, brother,”I mutter as I grab what I brought Vinny from the back seat of the SUV and head for the hospital entrance.You need to pull through this. Wake up. You need to wake up and get better. If you don’t, I don’t fucking know what I’ll do.
The wordsof Vinny’s text message begin to float across my mind as I mentally order him to get better on my way through the main floor of the hospital, my eyes downcast to the gleaming, spotless floors. Each word of his text is as vivid as it would be if it were to move across a digital screen or billboard.
Vinny: Tried to protect Nat. They caught us off guard. 6 men. Not Italian. American.Bikers. HHpindsmc Or Stans Furmc. West accents. Lots of ink. One had a skull on his neck. Jsul. They took her. So sorry. I failed, boss. If I dont make it, thanku for everrth
The mistakes and typos in his incomplete message only show me how hard Vinny fought to get each word out. He put every last ounce of energy and willpower into providing as much information as he could to me,even while fully expecting not to survive his injuries. There are still a couple of parts that I haven’t been able to figure out what he meant. Clusters of letters likeHHpindsmc, Stans Furmc,andJsul,have been a big mystery to unravel. I mean, the guy had been shot in the head. It might just be letters his fingers pressed in between consciousness. Nonsense. Gibberish. But they might’ve alsobeen intentional. Key clues he meant for us to read. Or maybe they’re a combination of both errors and critical pieces of information Vinny needed to convey. I’ve sent the message to a couple of my men to work on. So far no one can make heads or tails of it.
If Vinny would just wake up...
The tip of the hockey stick I’m carrying taps the bottom step of the stairwell as I make myway up to Vinny’s room on the third floor.
“Fuck,” I groan at my carelessness. The stick’s signed by Steven Santini, Vinny’s favorite defenseman in the Jersey Devils this season. It’s the only NHL team he’s ever followed, since back when we were kids. Hoisting it higher, I grip it further down along the handle and continue upstairs. Everyone else gets him flowers and get-well cards. Butnot me. Since he’s been here, all I’ve brought here are signed hockey memorabilia. It’s the least I can do. And I know he appreciates it. He will. When he wakes up, he’ll have these to add to his collection.
If he’d just wake up…
Without consciously intending to, my other hand balls up into a tense, veined, frustrated fist.
Fuck.
The man did all he could to give methese clues and still, I’ve made no fucking progress. I’m the fucker who made zero fucking headway from my friend’s effort to save Natalia. I’m the incompetent prick who failed everyone.
And I’m still fucking failing them.
Until I have Natalia back safe and sound, that’s all I’ll be.
I have to find her.
I push the details of Vinny’s text around my thoughts for the umpteenthtime. The most obvious clue is the skull ink that one of the men had tattooed on his neck. I had all my contacts comb through every last friend and associate they know to figure out how to identify which members of which motorcycle club could’ve accepted this kidnapping job. The problem is, they came up with too many. At least a few hundred west coast MC members have skull tattoos on theirfucking necks, and a whole lot more across the country are sporting the same ink. And that’s just of the ones our people are aware of. On its own, that clue hasn’t been helpful. I have two of my guys working their way through these lists, but so far, nothing.
The only promising detail about the part where he mentioned that they took her, is the fact that they didn’t kill her on the spot.There was no body, and up until now, no ransom demands or body parts showing up in mysterious packages.
Nothing.
To me, this kind of nothing means there’s a chance Natalia is alive.
