Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Do we take him?” a man asks, nudging Enzo’s still body with the tip of his shoe.
“No.”
He doesn’t deserve a burial. He didn’t fight for me. He fought for Gianni. Without formal training or combat experience, he didn’t last long. My only regret is that he died on impact when the bullet ripped through his heart. He should’ve suffered.
The men work fast, gathering weapons and clearing the building. I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror as I slide behind the wheel of the SUV. Covered in blood, I’m a fucking mess. The whites of my eyes are the only color discernible in the red. My clothes are drenched, my hands soaked. I look every bit the monster I am.
Four minutes later, I steer the vehicle over the bridge. The three SUVs with my men follow. On top of the hill, I stop to look at the warehouse. An explosion blasts the building, orange clouds billowing into the sky. Another one rocks the guardhouse. Metal roof plates fly through the air. A few smaller explosions follow in quick succession, flattening the whole block of constructions. All Marziale’s assets gone. All traces of that son of a bitch wiped out.
I savor the sight for a couple of seconds before taking the road that runs into the mountains. We stop at the abandoned farmhouse where I left my car, undress, and burn the clothes. There’s no electricity or running water, but the melting snow feeds a small waterfall that tumbles over the rocks into a stream.
The men light a fire and heat water to wash, but I scrub myself clean in the icy water under the fall.
We dress in the clothes we packed, dump the ashes of our burnt gear in the stream, cover our tracks, and take a detour inland. While the men carry on home in the SUVs, I drive my car to the hospital.
For once, the corridor is empty except for my men. Visiting hours ended at eight. It’s eleven already.
The nurse from this morning steps out of Sabella’s room. “Mr. Russo.” Despite the late hour, she says in a chirpy voice, “Your wife is making progress.”
“She is?” I hold my breath. “Is she awake?”
“Not yet, but she talked, which is always a good sign.”
“She talked?” My pulse spikes. “In her sleep?”
“You can say so.”
My gut clenches. “What did she say?”
A smile splits her face. “She asked for you.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “For me?”
“Yes. Angelo. That’s what she said. Several times. Isn’t that your name?”
My name.
Sabella said my name.
Not consciously, but she said it all the same, and I wasn’t there to hear it.
“That is you,” she says, phrasing it like a question with uncertainty bleeding into her expression.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Yes.”
She pats my arm. “Well, then it’s good. It means she’s slowly but surely coming back to consciousness.”
“I should’ve been here.” Fuck. “I should’ve been here when she asked for me.”
Her manner is kind. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. You had to go home to shower, have a meal, and get some rest. You were here before daylight. You must’ve been exhausted.”
“I wanted to hear it,” I say more to myself than to her.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll hear it plenty when she comes to.”
I’m not so sure, but I don’t correct her as she waltzes away.
“You can stay for a few minutes,” she says from over her shoulder before adding with a wink, “I won’t tell the matron.”
I pull the chair up to the bed and squeeze my body into the narrow seat before taking my wife’s hand. Maybe I’m imagining it, but her skin feels warmer.
“How are you, cara?” I whisper, kissing every one of her fingertips.
Her hand stays limp in mine.
“Don’t worry.” I brush a thumb over her knuckles. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to take care of you. Just wake up so I can take you home.” Desperate, I go as low as using the children. “The kids miss you. They want you to come home.” I add in a raw tone, “So do I.”
She gives no reaction, no sign that she heard me.
I sit there for a long time, hoping she’ll speak again, but the gods who watched over her and spared her life must be punishing me, because the only sound is the solid beep of the heart rate monitor.
The sun is filtering through the window when the doctor enters. She gives a start when she notices me.
“Visiting hours aren’t until eleven.” She bustles to the trolley and takes a clipboard from a file pocket. “Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.”
I don’t reply.
“Hmm.” She looks at me from under her lashes. “I better have a word with the nurses.”
“She’s my wife,” I say, clenching my teeth.
“And she has to rest,” she says.