Corrado dropped his gun to the floor. “I did. Death is a lot more humane than what would’ve happened had he still been breathing when Salvatore arrived.”
* * *
All Haven could see were fireworks.
Flashes of light broke through in the darkness, loud bangs ringing out in the distance. She didn’t know what was real anymore, where she was or what was happening, but one thing she was sure about was the fireworks. It reminded her of the day Carmine had taken her to the party. She could still feel him, and a million butterflies invaded her system, leaving her weakened and dizzy.
“Just fireworks, tesoro. Nothing to be afraid of,” he had said. “They won’t hurt you.”
She believed that as she lay there, just as she had the day he first spoke those words. She felt no fear and believed they couldn’t harm her. Nothing would. Carmine would come for her, and he would save her, because that was what they did for each other. Although she was drowning, slipping further away, she knew she would be fine as long as she didn’t give in.
They couldn’t have her spirit. She wouldn’t let them win.
So as she lay in the darkness, listening to the fireworks, she fought to hold on with what little strength she had left.
The fireworks faded, the moment lost, but his faint voice continued to register with her ears. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up as her skin tingled, the sensation so real she could smell his cologne. It drew her closer to the surface as it swirled all around. She wondered if it was a mirage, like a thirsty man in the midst of a hot, dry desert who saw a lake that wasn’t there. Was she so desperate for him to come that her senses tricked her into believing he had?
Yes, she thought. She must be hallucinating again.
Light filtered through her eyelids as Carmine’s voice grew louder. She forced her eyes open at the sound, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision. Everything was hazy, but she could make out the familiar face, the sight of it nearly stilling her weary heart.
It didn’t even seem to want to beat right anymore.
Carmine turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. They were clearer than everything else, the green color striking amidst the fog. “Fuck!” he spat, sending chills through her body. Her vision blurred more, and she blinked rapidly, anxious to stay conscious. “Fucking ninja, you scared me!”
“Carmine?” She winced from the burn in her throat.
“Yeah, it’s me. I told you I’d find you. I was never gonna give up.” His voice was fueled with emotion as he ran his hand along her cheek. “God, I fucking love you.”
She tried to reach for him, but the movement sapped every ounce of energy from her. Everything went black again as soon as her hand dropped, noises fading out as if she were drowning again.
“Happy new year,” she whispered as he disappeared.
50
Haven had no way to gauge how much time had passed while she was out—it could have been hours or days, even months before she slowly started having moments of clarity, ones she knew were real because of the pain. She heard noises during one of her spells and pushed to regain consciousness. She was in a dark room, but she could make out a form standing a few feet away. “Dr. DeMarco?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it against her chest. She jumped from the unexpected coldness, pain ricocheting through her from the movement. “Try not to move.”
“It hurts,” she said, tears falling.
“I know it does.” He placed his hand against her forehead, and she lay as still as possible as he checked her over. The scene was dreamlike. “You’re not real.”
Dr. DeMarco’s brow furrowed. “I’m not real?”
“You’re not really here,” she said. “I’m dreaming again.”
“Oh, I’m really real.” He paused as a small smile took over his lips. “At least, I think so.”
She tried to smile in response, but she was weak and wasn’t sure if it worked. “I don’t understand. How did you get here? Where’s Carmine?” Fear paralyzed her. “Did Nunzio kill him?”
She tried to sit up as she looked around the room frantically, but Dr. DeMarco blocked her. “Calm down, child.”
“I can’t.” Her voice cracked. “Where is he? Is he hurt? Is that why he isn’t here?”
“He’s fine. He just had something to take care of.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as he averted his gaze. “What?”
“It’s not important right now,” he said. “Carmine will be back soon, and he’ll be elated you’re awake.”
Nothing made sense. “I’m confused.”
“I imagine you are.” He gave her a wary look. “You were drugged when you were away.”
“Drugged.” Flashes of memory hit her. A man injecting her a few times, his voice unfamiliar.
“I assume it was their way of keeping you subdued. You probably don’t remember much, and it’s best you don’t strain yourself trying to.” His tone told her he meant business. “Your body overdosed on the medication, so when you came off it you went through withdrawal. It would’ve been best to take you to a hospital, but there was no way to explain your condition along with the thiopental and phenobarbital in your system.”
“What are they?”
“They’re some powerful drugs we use at the hospital. I’m assuming that’s where Jen came into play. Thiopental is, uh . . .” He looked wracked with guilt. “It’s what I’ve given you a few times. In low doses it will subdue someone, but higher doses result in a coma. The other slows brain function. With those two used together, I’ll be shocked if you remember anything at all.”
She started to reply but stopped abruptly when he pulled out a syringe. History told her nothing good came from needles.
“Morphine for the pain,” he explained when he noticed her reaction, gently picking up her arm. She glanced at the IV attached to her, watching as Dr. DeMarco injected the drug into her vein. “You were in bad shape when we found you.”
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“It’s the twenty-ninth of October.” He eyed her cautiously. “You disappeared September thirtieth.”
A month had passed, and she had little recollection of it.
“They had you for two weeks,” he said. “The other two you have spent recuperating here.”
“Where’s here?” Exhaustion crept in fast as numbness overtook her body.
“We’re in Chicago at my sister’s house.”
“Chicago,” she said, vaguely recalling a man telling her that before. She had no energy to make sense of it, especially considering she had already forgotten what she wanted to say in the first place.
* * *
The dim hospital corridor smelled strongly of antiseptic. The suffocating stench of misery hung in the air, thicker than the night before. The feel of death was stronger, the desperation greater. It was a sensation Vincent still hadn’t gotten used to.
The sound of his footsteps bounced off the sterilized walls as he made his way to room 129. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside the darkened ICU room. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he saw his sister curled up in the gray chair. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. Quietly, he grabbed an extra blanket from the cabinet and covered her up. Waking her was pointless—she never went home when he told her to.
He turned to the bed, his blurry, tired eyes inspecting the numerous machines. The steady hum of the ventilator drowned out almost every noise, but the tube that had been taped in Corrado’s mouth the past two weeks was no longer there. He had gotten a tracheotomy overnight, a tube now running straight into the front of his throat. The sight of it made Vincent’s stomach sink.
More complications, one after another. Corrado couldn’t catch a break.
He’d been dead on arrival, but a young ER doctor refused to write him off. After a valiant attempt, they had managed to get Corrado’s heart beating again. It had remained steady since then, but he was in a coma, his body giving no indication it ever intended to wake up.
Vincent watched for a while, feeling helpless and entirely to blame. He couldn’t bear to think of what would happen if Corrado never regained consciousness. But even if he did, Vincent was plagued with the possible side effects. There could be massive brain damage, seizures, or paralysis. If he woke up, he may never be the same.
And that terrified him more than the possibility of the man dying.
Celia stirred, her eyes opening and meeting Vincent’s right away. She sat up, stretching. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes,” he said. “I would’ve come sooner, but the girl woke up.”
Optimism shined from Celia. It was out of place in the dismal hospital room. “How is she?”
“She’s . . . alive. She has a long road of recovery ahead of her.”
“I bet Carmine’s relieved.”
“He doesn’t know,” Vincent said. “He was at Sal’s.”
Celia cringed. “How did you explain that to her?”
“I didn’t. It’s time for Carmine to handle things on his own. Time for him to be a man.”
“You sound like Dad,” Celia said.
It was Vincent’s turn to cringe, but he kept his opinion to himself. “It’s after seven. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I already slept.”
Stubborn woman. “Dozing in a chair doesn’t count. If you keep it up, you’ll end up in a bed on the floor below, committed for exhaustion.”
Celia climbed to her feet and pressed a kiss on Corrado’s forehead. “I’ll go home when he can.”
Vincent’s chest constricted as he watched his sister care for her husband, lovingly smoothing his hair and fixing his hospital gown. “What if that doesn’t happen?”
Celia’s shoulders stiffened. “Don’t say that.”
“You have to consider the possibility.”
Anger flared in her dark eyes. “He’ll wake up.”
“Yes, but . . . what if he doesn’t? Corrado wouldn’t want to be lying in a bed like this.”
“He’d want to live, and he will. He’s getting stronger every day.”
His sister sounded certain, but Vincent knew too much to succumb to her hopeful words. “The longer he’s unconscious, the less likely it is he’ll—”
“I know,” Celia said, cutting him off. “I’ve heard the doctors, but they don’t know Corrado like I do. He’ll come out of this.”
“What makes you sure?”
“Because he told me he would. When he left the house, he said he’d come back to me. Corrado has never broken his word.”
* * *
Haven awoke again to a bright room, squinting from the harsh light filtering in the window. She groaned as she turned away from the sunlight, her hand coming into contact with a body in bed beside her. Carmine was asleep, his chest rising and falling at a steady pace, his right arm wrapped from his fingers up past his elbow with an elastic bandage.
