Page 15 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“What happened?” I asked, reaching out to put a hand under her arm, pulling gently until I coaxed her to sit back down.

“I, ah, he… he was getting in his car and was attacked from behind. Beaten within an inch of his life. He’s… he’s in a coma,” she said.

“Fuck,” I said, reaching to place a hand on her knee, giving it a squeeze. “Do you want me to take you there?” I asked.

“I, ah, yeah. I have to go. I’m… I’m his emergency contact.”

“That surprises you?” I asked.

“We haven’t talked in a year. More, maybe,” she admitted.

I couldn’t pretend to understand her relationship with her old man, but it was hard for me to imagine not being in contact with my family.

That was just not how shit worked with the Grassis. You might have a fucking knock-down-drag-out on a Tuesday, but you were going to be sitting across from each other on Sunday night, so you had to work your shit out. The elders in the family would never stand for members not getting along for any length of time.

But who the fuck knew.

Maybe Traveler’s old man had been abusive or something like that. Or a deadbeat when she was growing up. She’d never mentioned a mom, but she obviously had one somewhere. Or had one in the past tense.

“Think maybe you’re the only family he’s got?” I suggested.

She let out this weird-ass sound. Like whimpering and choking at the same time. And even with her head ducked, I could see the way she was squeezing her eyes shut, likely trying to keep tears from streaming out.

“Yeah,” she agreed, sucking in a deep breath. “Drink,” she demanded, pointing toward it.

I handed it over, watching her chug it down.

“I have to go see him,” she decided.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “When you’re ready,” I added.

She said nothing to that, not for a long time.

Then, “That’s why it happened.”

“Hm?”

“The break-in at my place. It happened because someone thought they’d finally taken out my father. Maybe they did,” she added, voice hollow.

“Hey, don’t think like that. Coma doesn’t mean dead. Was heina coma? Or did they put him in a coma?”

“I, ah, I didn’t think to ask that,” she admitted. “Does it make a difference?”

“Maybe. I’m no doctor. But I would think it would be better if they put him in it, just so his body could heal than if he was just… in one when he came in.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, nodding. “He’s in intensive care.”

“That makes sense.”

“That’s bad,” she said.

“Depends on how you look at it. Yes, it means that he’s hurt pretty badly. But it also means he’s getting the best possible care he can get there. Lot fewer patients to each doctor.”

“You know a lot about this.”

“I’ve had a lot of family members in the hospital,” I said, shrugging. And a cousin who ran her own sort of trauma medicine center for all the criminals in the area. You sort of picked shit up over time of hearing medical jargon all around you since you were a small kid.

“Right. Yeah. I, ah, I’ve never been in a hospital,” she said. “You know, as a patient.”

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