glances at the edge of the cover. Tears cling to her eyelashes, but she doesn’t sob. It’s Ben, I know. I can see the conflict in her face, her desire to mourn him warring with the man he was.
“He did right in the end,” I croak. My voice is fading. There’s so much blood I can hardly believe I’m still alive. “He saved you. And he told me something. He said your dad made up those stories about him killing kids.” I wheeze. “You need to wrap that wound. Even flesh wounds can hurt.”
She touches my face. “I don’t know what to do, Carlo,” she says. “You’re bleeding so much.”
“Take care of yourself. Take care of the baby. That’s what you can do.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll be here to take care of both of us.”
I growl out a laugh. “We both know you’ve never needed anyone to take care of you, Hazel. I just want you to know, I understand why you lied. I forgive you.”
“And I forgive you for being such a jerk.”
She leans in and kisses me softly. Everything else seems far away, but not her lips. Her lips are hot and tempting and perfect and even in the midst of the craziness, I imagine us in bed together, interlocked, fusing like we were made for each other. Because we were.
“What if the Italians lose?” Hazel ponders. “What if—Ah!”
She screams as an Irishman comes running around the corner. A stocky man with a jagged tattoo of a seeping wound across his throat—no, not a tattoo. He’s bleeding and stumbling and he’s got a knife in his hand, waving it around. He makes for Hazel and I know right away what he’s planning to do: take her hostage to save his own life.
“Shoot him!” I roar. But it doesn’t come out as a roar. It’s not even a whisper, not even a sound.
I try to stand but my legs buckle beneath me. Hazel raises the gun, taking a step back.
“Don’t move,” she snaps. “Don’t come any closer. I fucking mean it!”
“What?” the Irishman gurgles. “Little princess Colleen is gonna kill a man?” He tosses the knife from hand to hand, spry despite his injuries. I try to stand up again. Again, I fail. He has a tattoo on the back of his hand that reads “hope.” There’s something deranged about that. “We all know you haven’t got that in you, princess—fuck!” He howls and collapses, writhing in agony.
“Maybe not,” Hazel says, shooting him in his other knee. I was wrong about the recoil. She handles it quite well, all things considered. “But I’m not going to let you stab me, either, you dumb motherfucker. Now drop that fucking knife.”
The man doesn’t have a choice. I smile and try to tell Hazel I’m proud of her, even if maybe that’s a fucked-up thing to say, that you’re proud of somebody for kneecapping a person. But it’s the truth. I always knew she had fire in her. I always knew it could burn as well as heal.
“Carlo!” she yells, kneeling down beside me. She grabs my face, leans down to bring her face close to mine. I feel her breath dancing over me, but her words echo dimly in my head.
This time when I pass out, I don’t wake up.
35
Hazel
The next few hours pass in a kind of haze. An albino man, who I’m guessing is the Albino I’ve occasionally heard Emily mention in passing, carries Carlo to a van and puts him in the back. I climb in with him and do my best to get out of the way as a little man with wire-framed glasses starts wrapping him in bandages.
“He needs the hospital,” the man says matter-of-factly. “Soon, Maury. Very soon.”
“I’m fucking driving,” the Albino growls. “Dio ci salvi.”
I sit next to Carlo, holding his hand, hoping he can feel it.
“You are bleeding,” the little man says. “Your leg. Come here, miss.”
I don’t have the energy to fight as he quickly patches up my leg. He tells me it’s a flesh wound, that I just need to rest and let it heal. But I don’t even hear the words. I just squeeze Carlo’s hand and try to feel for a hint of life in him. I keep thinking about Benjy lying dead back there. I don’t care about Dad, or maybe I do, but only because he’s my family. But Benjy redeemed himself. Especially if he didn’t really hurt those kids.