of me.
Because the cops were coming.
And they couldn't have a prisoner in the basement.
Then I did it.
I ran.
And ran.
And ran.
I found myself in a crowded park, people glancing at me sideways for wearing a bright red evening dress and no shoes in the early morning, but I ignored them, let them think I had just done a walk of shame, reaching into my bodice to produce the wallet.
Arturo's.
There was his face on the driver's license, staring back at me, accusing me.
"Rot in hell, asshole," I grumbled at the picture as I reached into the fold to pull out a wad of cash.
Two thousand.
That would get me safe.
I could figure it out from there.
Don't ask me why I didn't just drop the wallet in the trashcan and make my escape from the city. I don't know the answer.
All I know is that I didn't do that.
I sat on a bench, flipping through the wallet.
And that was when I found it.
The letter.
And the picture.
I read it once, twice, three times, before the words started to sink in, to penetrate, to make sense.
Then I reached for the picture again, not wanting to believe it, but there was no denying it.
I sat there for a long time, long enough that my ass started to hurt, staring down at what I just found, trying to decide what it meant, if anything.
But it did mean something.
And, I guess, I wasn't running away after all.
I had one more wrong to right.
And then I would be done with this fucking family once and for all.
Chapter Thirteen
Lorenzo
Apparently, one does interesting things when they are coming out of the drugs used for a medically-induced coma.
Like demand someone turn the lights on, when the problem was your eyes were still shut.
Like ask for someone to stop spinning the room when the room was, of course, stationary.
Like offer to ruthlessly murder the shitty husband of the nurse who had been telling the other nurse that he'd been cheating on her for six months.
I remembered exactly none of this, but was told all of it by a smiling Emilio as he stood at my bedside, looking worn out, eyes baggy, skin pale, clothes wrinkled.
"How long have I been out?" I demanded.
"Just over a week," he told me, eyes pained. "It was touch and go. They didn't give you a great odds. Thank fuck you're a stubborn bastard," he said, giving me a weak smirk.
"Where is she?" I demanded.
I didn't know much when I was out.
Of the actual world.
A lot of people wake up from their comas saying they heard every sentence uttered to them, felt every brush of a hand, tried so hard to get back to the surface of their consciousness.
That was not me.
I guess maybe because of all the drugs.
I knew nothing of the world around me.
Not the constant beeps of the machines I was hooked up to. Not the squeaking of the nurses' shoes. Not Emilio's demands I wake the fuck up already and fix this mess.
All I knew was blissful unconsciousness. And dreams of Giana.
The soft brush of her hand. Those gray eyes. Her voice calling out my name.
I spent seven days in my head alone with Gigi.
But I was in the real world now.
And I needed to know where she was, if she was okay, when I could see her.
"We don't know," Emilio admitted, wincing, bracing for the impact of my rage.
"What the fuck do you mean you don't know where she is?" I roared, folding up in the bed, the machine at my side starting to scream.
There was hardly a blink before I could hear those squeaky shoes rushing in, a pretty blonde nurse coming in at my side, looking at the machine, pressing a hand to my chest.
"You need to stay calm," she told me, voice firm.
"I need to sign myself out," I shot back, ripping the monitor off my finger, the tube out of my hand.
"You really need to see the doctor. He is on his way in. Mr. Costa, you were shot in the head. You had surgery. And you were in a coma. You need to take it slow."
"I know what happened. And I know I need to get the hell out of here," I told her, regretting my tone when she shrank back.
Let's face it, they knew average people didn't get shot in the head.
They likely heard all about who I was.
"He's not going anywhere until he gets looked over," Emilio assured the nurse. "But maybe tell the good doc he better