by Ella James
I can see his wide eyes and the funny twist of his lips.
And so begins another tear-fest. I’m mopping my face with a tissue, packing away the remnants of my dinner trash, when a nurse steps into the room. She’s a kind-looking woman with white hair, but I think she looks tired, which makes me worried.
“Hello there…Mrs. Galante?” My stomach does a brutal dip as I nod. “We’re ready for you.”
She leads me through a steel door into a large open space with smaller, glassed-walled rooms and patient areas partitioned with green sheets. It smells like a hospital, but there are bulletin boards with brightly colored posters and small touches like rainbow stickers on the floor, which I guess are supposed to make the area feel cheery.
The nurse slides open a door to one of the small, glass rooms, and I find Luca elevated in a railed hospital bed, covered to his neck with white blankets and wearing a plastic mask over his mouth and nose. His face is gray; I think his eyes look swollen, but I’ve never been so glad to see him.
“Look who we’ve got here,” the nurse says, and his eyes peek open—barely.
I can tell he sees me, though, because after his eyelids shut, he drags them back open. He makes a hoarse sound and then squints his eyes, as if he’s wincing.
“May I—”
“Yes.” The nurse nods, and I walk closer to his bedside.
“Can I touch him?”
“Sure. Looks like he’s okay everywhere but under the blankets.” Tears fill my eyes, because his whole body is under the blankets.
I stroke his hair, and his eyes shut again. Then I lean down, kissing his cheek.
“I love you.”
His eyes peek at me, but his face looks numb.
“He just started waking up. As he wakes more, we’ll pull the mask off, swap it for oxygen tubing, or even just remove it altogether. Anesthesia for the heart-lung bypass is a little more intense.”
I rub a finger over one of his brows. “Ciao dolce tesoro. Ti amo tanto. Starai bene.”
Then I realize I don’t know which language was his first. If it was English, he might be too loopy to translate right now.
I lean near his ear, the bed’s railing poking me in the ribs. I stroke his hair back from his forehead. “The doctor told me you did so well. She said it’s okay to be sleepy. You’ll wake up more in a little while. For now, just sleep.”
His eyes move toward me, like he’s trying to look up to where I’m leaning over him, but they shut again.
I stand by him, playing with his hair, until the nurse pushes a chair in my direction.
“It’s okay. I want to touch him,” I say with an awkward laugh.
“We can let the rail down.” She does that, and she says, “You can pull the covers back and touch his arm.”
So that’s what I do. I stroke his arm, and it feels so familiar, like he really is my husband. I’ve loved him forever, and I know he’s mine. Somehow, some way…he’s going to be mine. But it’s so strange, because he still seems new, too. Grown-up Luca. I don’t know the secrets of his heart.
I know so little about his life the last ten-plus years. It’s like…the way they find new planets. Scientists can’t see the planet; they just see the way the planet’s gravitational pull makes its nearest large star wobble. I know only the side effects of who he is: that he got a degree in philosophy and then applied it to real life in a way almost no one else would, trafficking drugs to free trafficked people. I don’t think he likes his job—he doesn’t seem to—but there’s no sign he would have left if not for me…and little bean. (I don’t know why I’m calling our baby little bean. It’s something generic I saw on an app when I was six or seven weeks along, and it just stuck).
Anyway, he’s so, so loyal. And principled. He’s a classic self-sacrificer, always putting everyone else first. He’s stoic, never complains. I remember how he hugged me right before we stepped into the garage, and my eyes start leaking again.
I love everything about this man. That’s what I focus on—just that—for the next eight hours. How he would do anything for me, so I’ll do anything for him. I tell myself if we’re found out, I just can’t let it matter. We’d still have each other and little bean. I’ll still have my friends. If people trash talk me from the angle of me being a female D.A., so what? I’m not single-handedly responsible for the fate of feminism.
My goal in life is not to break glass ceilings. It’s to be happy. Not happy like faux self-care happy, with two hundred dollar bath salts and Instagrammable photos of myself in designer yoga pants. Happy like a little seaside village. Happy like a favorite meal cooked to perfection. Happy like a favorite person waking up while you stroke their arm, sighing when you play with their hair, giving you tremulous smiles.
The first thing he says to me is, “Love you.” It’s weak and raspy, and he falls asleep right after. I know he’s still getting good meds, because his eyelids tremble like they do when people dream, and when he looks at me, he seems drunkenly content.
Things shift when they try to wake him up a bit more, so he can get rid of the high-flow air mask. More swallowing, shifting his jaw, and little winces that make me feel queasy with sympathetic pain. At one point, he jerks, and his eyes pop open. He grabs his chest like he’s remembering what happened in the garage. I guess it hurts, because he moans and then he whimpers. When he shifts his gaze to me, his eyes are dazed and red-rimmed.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I stroke his hair back off his forehead. “You got hurt. Do you remember?”
His face twists, and he starts breathing harder. His eyes lock onto mine, and he looks almost afraid. Our nurse comes over to his bedside. “Hi, Mr. Galante. I’m Christine, one of your nurses.” I can see her watching him, trying to discern…whatever nurses have to discern.
“Are you in pain?”
He looks from her to me. “Do you feel sore?” she asks, more slowly.
He shuts his eyes, and I can see his jaw clench. Then he gives a small shake of his head.
“Are you sure? Looks like some of your numbers are up, the way they are sometimes when patients are in pain,” the nurse says.
He looks at me then shuts his eyes again. “I’m sure,” he whispers. Then he winces as a little shudder moves through his shoulders.
“Let me know if you change your mind. We don’t want you hurting,” Christine says. “I’ll be right back,” she tells me, and then she exits through the narrow glass door.
As soon as she does, Luca’s eyes fix on my face. “Did…he die?” He brings a hand up to his face—the hand that’s got an IV taped onto the knuckles.
“Who, darling?”
“Aren.”
“Aren?”
He frowns at me through trembling fingers. “I shot him…right?” I think he must really be hurting, because his voice shakes, and he breathes deeply again. Then he curls his fist in his dark hair.
“Do you think you need more pain meds?”
He lifts his head, looking around the room. “You need…to get out of here.”
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
His mouth trembles, and he presses his lips flat. “Go,” he whispers. “Before…someone sees.”
“Sees what?” He holds his head again; I’m positive he’s hurting—his eyes and face look tortured—but I’m not quite sure he’s lucid.
“Sees you,” he groans. “With…me.”
His teeth are clamped down on his lip. He inhales deeply, fingers curled around his forehead.
“Luca, are you okay?”
“No. You…gotta go.”
“You just had a major surgery.”
“I…know.” He grits his teeth. His hand keeps tugging at his hair, and he’s still gulping big breaths.
“I’m not leaving right now. Please don’t be mad. I’ve got on a hat, and I said I was your wife. Mrs. Galante.”
His eyes widen, and I swear he pales a shade more.
“Listen, Luca—no one knows. I promise.”
�
�What…?” He looks down at himself, as if he’s trying to discern what kind of surgery he underwent.
“They did several things,” I whisper. “I know you have to be so sore.”
He covers his face with his hand. And then he’s breathing in these little jerks. “It…doesn’t hurt.” His voice is so hoarse. I watch his shaking fingers press into his forehead. “I’m just…mad…it happened. Somewhere…footage…of you…”
“Please don’t think about that right now. Not until tomorrow. You’re in the ICU. Just let me be here with you tonight. We can reassess it all tomorrow.”
I stand up, rubbing my hand through his hair the way I know he likes. And that’s when Christine rushes back in.
“Mr. Galante,” she says, frowning at one of the machines beside him. “I think you’re going to be overruled. I’ve been here eighteen years. I’ve never known a heart rate to lie. You’re not someone with an addiction history, are you?”
His eyes slide to me, and then balefully to the nurse. “No.” He looks absolutely miserable, and simultaneously more stubborn than I’ve ever seen him.
“You’re about to get hit with feel good stuff, big guy. Before Dr. Lin hears that I let that heart of yours get upset, and she has words with me.”
The nurse steps away, and Luca pleads with me, using just his poor, tired eyes.
“You’ll just get a little sleepy,” she assures him. “We want you to rest. Your wife is going nowhere, trust me. I couldn’t even get her to sit down. She loves taking care of you.”
Christine smiles down at him as she pushes a syringe into one of the tubes that disappears into his blankets. Luca’s eyes lock onto mine, and then his face relaxes and his shoulders loosen. I sift my fingers through his hair. He mumbles, “Put…you first.”
35
Luca
I don’t know what’s going on. Everything…feels like it’s moving. I can’t wake up enough. I can tell Elise is right there with her brown eyes and her murmurs, and I know we need to get out. But I’m too weak to explain.
She must know. One time she says, “We’re okay, dolce amore. I know you’re so tired. Close your eyes and let yourself sleep.”
She doesn’t get it. I can see the baby in the parking garage. Aren is mad. I’m telling her to run. I hear the gunshot as I jerk awake. She tries to tell me, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Her hands on my face. “We’re in a new room. Did you know that?”
I drag my heavy eyelids open. “You need to go.”
Things in the room, changing. Different faces…black windows, and then bright, then curtains. I don’t like the beeping.
“They’re going to make you get up again in a minute. Someone mentioned walking the halls. Look at what I’m wearing on my head.” Elise is grinning. She’s got on some kind of head cover. “No one seems to know you,” she says, looking smug. “Maybe you’re not so notorious after all.” Something cool is on my forehead. “Do you feel bad? Your head feels a little warm to me.”
It’s confusing. Like a vortex, and I’m sucked down. I can feel the worry underneath the surface. Something…
“Don’t worry. I think the pain pills are throwing you a little off.” Her arm comes around me. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ve got an idea.”
In the bathroom, she starts the shower, strips her clothes off, beckons me into the tiled stall.
“You’ve got some bandages, but look, this nozzle comes off. Let’s just run the water over all the not-bandaged places.”
It’s this little smile she gives me, like she’s sorry for me, like she wants to take away my pain. And I remember shooting Aren. I remember being on the ground, and looking up at her and wanting to hold onto her. I couldn’t move my arms when I was lying there.
I think I bled all over her clothes. There’s a plastic bag on the counter, right in front of my hospital bed, and it looks like her clothes. They’re stained dark.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” They say that over time, you forget how people’s voices sound—especially once they’re dead—but I didn’t. I still hear him sneering.
I can’t stop shaking. Maybe from the medicine, maybe because things hurt. But I think it’s because of her. I don’t want to fuck her up, but I can’t make her go.
“Luca?” She smiles softly, swathed in steam. “C’mon…”
I turn the doorknob with my hand and push through with my good shoulder. I think some things in my chest get strained as I shove through the door. It doesn’t matter. I just need to grab my phone. Looks like I’ve already got pants on.
She’s hot on my heels; I hear her come into the bedroom as I’m opening the door to the hall. I hurry out the door, and fuck, it hurts to walk. I don’t have shoes on…but I’ll call a black car.
Damn—where is the elevator? Everything…so dizzy. I’m moving slowly, and she’s gonna catch me. Need to hurry…
My head’s pounding. I need to find an elevator. Hurry up! My stomach hurts. I see a door that’s labeled EXIT. It’s a push door—thank you, stairwell. I push, and I’m in the stairwell. There’s a lot of stairs. I’m staring down them when the door opens again, hitting my shoulder.
“Fuck.”
“Luca?” I can barely hear her for my own moans.
“Baby, what are you doing?” Her hands on my neck. She’s gripping my good side. “Cuore, look at me.”
I shut my eyes, dizzy as shit.
“Where are you going? What’s the matter?” Her hands are on my shoulders. Her arms wrap around me gently.
“Does everybody know?” My voice sounds like an echo.
“That you’re here? Like, you specifically? No, of course not. No one knows.”
“But what about…the cameras?”
“Dani paid off one of the guards in her building. He lost his job for ‘forgetting’ to check the garage cams that night, so now he’s working for Dani’s mother, who she claims needed someone anyway.”
I open my eyes. “Go home.” My voice cracks. “I don’t…want to fuck shit up. Elise.” I hold my head, which is pounding sickly. “I don’t want to…be that person…for you.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice is gentle.
I’m not fucking up her life—not if I can help it. “Did he die?”
“Do you mean Aren?” Her hand rubs my back. “He did.” I feel her move in front of me, but I can’t open my eyes. Then she wraps her hand around the wrist of my unhurt arm, and I force myself to look at her.
“You have to go, rosa. There’s gonna be a…war. Someone’s gonna die. I can’t let it…be Alesso. Or my brother.”
“What does that mean?” She looks worried. “Are you saying it has to be you?”
I don’t know if they’ll avenge him. Jesus Christ, my head is spinning. I grab the rail. She says, “Please, please Luca. Let’s go back to bed now.”
“If I kill one of theirs first…and scare them…then it might not get far.” I feel cold and strange.
“I think you need to sit down. I’m scared you’re going to fall.”
There’s no way I’m sitting down. I’d never get back up. I can feel her move in closer, wrapping one arm carefully around me. Her hand is on my nape. She lowers my head to her shoulder. “I love you so much, Luca.”
“There’s not a way out. Always…a bad time. And right now…it’s really bad.”
Her hands stroke my hair. “Are you talking about leaving your job?”
I nod.
“Do you want to get out? Would you if you could?”
A groan slips out. It’s because I’m bending over, curled against her.
“What would you do if you could do anything? If you could start all over.”
It feels good—her holding me. I find her belly with my hand, relieved to see it’s still round.
“I want the selfish thing,” I whisper, my head reeling. “The do-over…that doesn’t exist.”
For a long moment, she’s silent. Then she whisper-hisses, “There’s no cameras in the stairwells. Dani
told me. She found out from someone she knows who works here. She’s been bringing things up to me, and we meet in a stairwell—so no one sees her either. Luca, can you lift your head and look at my eyes?”
I do—because she asked.
“You look like you’re really tired. It’s been a while since you got medicine. But if I help, do you think you could get down these stairs? There’s a lot of them. Like five flights.”
I’m surprised she thinks we should leave. But I nod.
Her gaze holds mine. “Do you trust me?”
I nod. I’ve got a cold sweat going now—but I trust her.
I swallow as Elise pulls out her cell phone, holding it to her ear, cupping her hand around it as she whispers. I’ve got my eyes on my bare feet, but I hear her murmuring. “Do it a little early. Yes, the south side. On the way…like as you’re pulling up, call and say…in a stairwell…fifth floor… Ree will have to call the second we leave—so tell her right now…say she saw a man get hit. Near the…took the body.” There’s a pause, where my pulse whooshes in my head. “It doesn’t matter if it’s…exactly. Dilla’s car…not breaking laws by leaving. We were going to do this anyway…”
I have the sense of her ending the conversation. Then her hand rubs my back. “We’re going to get out of here. Does that work? You’ve been in here almost four days. They were going to send you home tomorrow, they said—and Dani and I had cooked up this crazy plan to make things…go better. We can do it all right now, if you’re not happy about you and me both being in here.” Her hand is on my forehead, on my cheek. “Do you have a doctor who can see you at home?”
“Yeah.” I try to look like I feel better than I do, so she won’t worry.
“Whew, well that’s good. Our plan kind of hinges on that.” She kisses my chest, right by a bandage. “C’mon…let’s move slow but steady. Lean on me. I’ve got you.”
36
Elise
The plan is probably insane. But I’m not in the mob. I’m just a D.A. caught up in a star-crossed love affair, trying to help my injured mob boss lover fake his own death—or if not that, at least insinuate his disappearance.
