Sal Gabrini 3: Hard Love

by Mallory Monroe

  Then they all, once again, realized the trouble Sal was still in, and silence returned.

  Gemma eventually came downstairs and into the dining hall.

  “How is he?” Grace asked as she sat down at the table.

  “The same,” Gemma said. Then she shook her head. “His bedroom looks like a hospital room now. He’s going to hate that when he wakes up.”

  Trina smiled and nodded. “You know you’re right. I can hear him now. ‘All of these machines! And what the hell are these strangers doing in my house? Who the hell are you?”

  “No now, Tree,” Reno said with a smile, “don’t sugarcoat it. Sal would not ask who the hell was anybody. Sal would ask who the fuck was anybody.” They all laughed. “That’s his number one word, don’t even try to sugarcoat the language when it comes to Sal Luca.”

  “Yeah, he’s going to be a mess when he snaps out of it,” Gemma said.

  “What an odd way to put it, Miss Jones,” Jimmy said with a smile. “You make it sound as if getting better is all up to him.”

  “It’s up to God Almighty. I know that. But Sal has got to want it, and I know he does. That’s what I mean.”

  Jimmy nodded. He couldn’t agree more.

  And they continued to talk and reminisce until it was time for everybody to go back to their own lives. Everybody except Gemma. Sal was her life. She said her goodbyes, saw them all safely away, and then reentered the penthouse.

  As soon as she did, she was struck by the silence. Sal’s house always had a vibrancy to it, even when she was home alone there. Now it felt as if it was missing a pulse. Sal’s pulse.

  She headed upstairs. She could barely stand, but she stood. But when she entered the massive master bedroom, and saw her man still on his back, still asleep, still as helpless as a babe, she was done with all of this strength. The around-the-clock medical staff had set up shop in the adjacent dressing room, which was as big as a bedroom itself, and two of the three guest rooms, but had monitors to constantly see and note his status. That left Gemma and Sal alone in the room.

  Gemma removed her shoes, crawled into bed and curled up beside Sal. She placed her arm around him. It was the first time she had laid beside him since the shooting, and she thought she would be swept away with emotion. She thought she would break down and cry. But she didn’t. It felt too comforting. She didn’t cry at all. She, instead, got herself, for the first time since it happened, a much needed good night’s rest.

  Another week came, another week left. The doctors continued to look doubtful and talk hopeful. Gemma ran the household as best she could, and the mammoth Wingate along with it. She never imagined how much work Sal had on his plate. How he could travel as much as he did, often several times a week, and still handle what he had to handle was astonishing to her.

  But nothing was more astonishing to her until, after nearly a month since Sal’s accident, she returned to the Wingate after a trip to the Spa. There was a Spa inside the Wingate, but she wanted to get away. She felt she needed to get away. She even drove herself for a change. Tommy had been ruling her every movement, including insisting that everywhere she went was by chauffeur driven SUV, Town car or limousine. Pick her choice. She allowed it because she knew security was an issue right now. But enough was enough. On this day, she took Sal’s Ferrari and made her way to the Spa. Men followed her, she was certain she had a tail, but it was better than being driven. She never dreamed, when she returned, that everything would be suddenly so changed.

  As soon as she entered the penthouse, Carmen the maid was running down the stairs. “He’s awake, Miss Jones!” she was yelling.

  “He’s awake?” Gemma asked, unsure why Carmen should be so animated. Sal awoke several times in the run of a day. But only for a few seconds.

  “He’s awake!” Carmen yelled again as she approached. “And he’s asking for you!”

  Now that was a switch, Gemma knew. Sal hadn’t spoken, not once whenever he woke up. But he was asking for her? She dropped the bag of spa goodies she had purchased, and ran up the stairs. She slung open the double doors of his bedroom and stood there. And sure enough, Sal was awake. Not just in and out. Not just for that ephemeral moment. He was awake! And when his big, blue eyes looked over, and saw Gemma, and then he opened his arms for her, she nearly collapsed where she stood.

  But she stood, and ran into his arms.

  The medical staff, all thrilled too, stood back as she fell across his body and he held her in his arms. She was sobbing as he held her. She couldn’t help it. Sal was back.

  She looked down at him. He was staring up at her. He wasn’t crying, but she knew him. He was just as emotional inwardly as she was outwardly. He was looking at her as if he had won the lottery, but still didn’t believe it could be true.

  “Where have you been?” he asked her.

  She smiled through her tears. “With you,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  Sal held her tighter, and fought back tears. “With you,” he said so heartfelt that Gemma found herself crying more, not less.

  “Every time I woke up,” he continued saying, “and saw your pretty face, I knew I was in good hands. So I went back to sleep. And you were always there when I woke up. It was as if I could sense your presence. You were always there. Until today.”

  Gemma laughed. She would pick this day to rebel! “I went to the Spa,” she said.

  “Tommy keeping you airtight?”

  She nodded. “Super airtight,” she said.

  “And you wasn’t having it?”

  Gemma laughed. Sal was picking up on her lingo. “And I wasn’t having it.”

  “Good,” Sal, who was known as a rebel himself, said. “Don’t let anybody clip your wings.”

  “A bird’s gotta fly,” Gemma said.

  “Bird my ass,” Sal said hoarsely, to laughter from her. “You’re no regular bird, what are you talking? You’re a fucking eagle. You’re the queen of the birds. You don’t fly, you soar.” Then his look turned serious, and tears suddenly appeared in his rested, but still traumatized eyes. “Lift me higher, Gemma Jones,” he said, his pale white hand rubbing her beautiful black face, “and take me with you.”

  Gemma’s heart fell through her shoe. And she fell back into his arms. He had turned that corner big time. No question about it now. He had turned that corner as only he could.

  Sal, her Sal, was back.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Dad? Hi,” Gemma said into the phone as she leaned back. She was in Sal’s home office, sitting behind his desk, going over his books. “Where are you? I thought Mom said you were attending the World Bank conference.”

  “I am,” her father, Rodney Jones, responded. “Just got back to my hotel room.”

  “And you decided to give your kid a call. How sweet.”

  “How’s Sal?”

  “Better. He’s getting better. He’s more awake than he’s asleep now, he’s getting physical therapy, he’s on the mend.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Then there was a pause.

  Gemma knew her father. He was not the casual caller type. “So what’s up?” she asked him.

  “I take it things are still moving in the direction of marriage for the two of you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Despite what happened?”

  “Yes. Sal saved my life. That makes marriage even more likely for me, not less.”

  “But why did he have to save your life? You ever thought about that, Gemma? Because of his activities, that’s why.”

  Gemma couldn’t believe it. “Wait a minute now. You were on team Sal. You were onboard with Sal. He didn’t force anybody to shoot at us. Sal didn’t cause that. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “I’m not saying it was his fault, dear. But . . . I’ll get to the point then. I met this gentleman since I’ve been here. He’s one of the speakers, in fact. We were talking and I mentioned what happened to Sal, and then I mentioned Sal’s name. He said he knew him.”

&
nbsp; Gemma hesitated. “Okay.”

  “Not personally, I don’t mean that kind of knowledge. But he knew of him. He said he’d give a call to some of his former colleagues who worked in that division and see what they know.”

  “What division?”

  “He used to be an FBI agent, Gem. A field director no less. He’s going to talk with his colleagues in the organized crime division.”

  Gemma closed her eyes. Would this ever end? And then there was a knock on the study door. Gemma had asked the estate manager to pay her a visit and the knock was undoubtedly his. “Anyway, I’ve got to run, Dad.”

  “I know you love, Sal.”

  “Yes, I do. I thought you did too.”

  “I do. But I love my daughter more. It’s you I have to look out for, and you alone.”

  Gemma exhaled. “Understood.”

  “Just . . . take care of yourself, all right?”

  “I will.” Another knock. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Gemma killed the call, and invited the estate manager in.

  After welcoming each other and other niceties, Ulysses Camdon, a burly white man in his fifties, took a seat in front of Gemma’s desk. And Gemma didn’t mix words.

  She tossed a stack of files toward Camdon. “Why haven’t those people been evicted?” she asked him.

  He glanced at the files, and then tossed them back. “With all due respect, Miss Jones,” he said, “I don’t think you understand the gravity of evicting people. Evicting people is a very serious matter.”

  But Gemma wasn’t about to be schooled on something so elementary. Who did this guy think she was? “Allowing people to live in Mr. Gabrini’s complex without paying rent,” she said, “is a serious matter as well. People pay six thousand dollars a month to live at the Wingate. That’s forty-eight thousand dollars Sal is losing every single month that those tenants in question haven’t paid. Forty-eight thousand dollars. Now where you come from that may be chump change, but in the real world it’s money.”

  “Yes, I understand that. It’s money in my world too, for your information.”

  He was being snippy, but Gemma didn’t care. “Look at these books,” she said, pointing to the papers in front of her. “I’m not talking about tenants who are a month behind. These eight residents aren’t even two months behind. But each one of them is at least three months behind, Mr. Camdon. Three months. In what universe is that okay? What in the world has happened here?”

  “Since the accident, everything has kind of been on hold.”

  Gemma frowned at that. “Why?” she asked. “Who told you to put anything on hold?”

  “While Mr. Gabrini recovers.”

  “Mr. Gabrini’s recovery has nothing to do with you doing your job. Before Sal went down he was a very busy man, when he’s back at full strength he will be a very busy man. He hired you because he assumed he could rely on you to do your job.”

  “With respect, ma’am, he can rely on me. And I am doing my job.”

  “By allowing eight different households to skate on your boss? You call that doing your job? It’s your job to oversee the Wingate. You’re the estate manager. It’s your job to make sure everybody else is doing theirs. The buck is supposed to stop with you, Mr. Camdon. But instead you’re trying to pass the buck.”

  “That’s your opinion. An opinion you may think highly of, but I don’t.”

  Gemma stared at him. His arrogance was nothing new to her. She had to deal with his type her entire career. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” she said, “but it can’t possibly be me.”

  “What I’m saying is that sometimes you ladies take things far more seriously than we males do. With all due respect.”

  “What I’m saying is that if you think, for one second, that I’m some emotional chick who responds based on emotion and not facts, then I suggest you think again. I’m not that girl. I’m also telling you to initiate evictions on all eight households and you begin that process today. If those families do not pay up after being served with notification of eviction, then they had better be kicked out of here. This is no charity. They have to leave. If they are not removed from these premises, and you do not restore some semblance of order to this complex, then you’ll be evicted. Out of a job.”

  “This is what I’m going to do,” Camdon said as if he was the one in charge. “I am going to speak with each one of the residents, explain to them what you are requesting, and I’ll see if we can come to some resolution. Perhaps a forgiveness program where they can just start paying their rents fresh from here on out, and we can keep the past in the past. But what I will not do is throw those poor souls out onto the street just because they couldn’t pay this exuberant rent. Many people can’t pay it. And I know, they should not have moved in here and signed a lease, but that’s neither here nor there in my humbled opinion.”

  Gemma sat there, and listened to every word he had to say. When he finished and she continued to sit there, he became uncomfortable. He smiled.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Jones? Cat got your tongue? You look as if you are over your head. You look as if you don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re fired,” Gemma said without mixing words. “How’s that for saying something?”

  Camdon suddenly turned beet red. He had actually thought she would go along with his plan simply because of who he was. And he was stumped. He couldn’t believe it.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Camdon?” Gemma asked. “Cat got your tongue? You look over your head. You look as if you don’t know what to say.”

  He popped up from his seat as if it was an affront to him to sit there. “Wait until Mr. Gabrini hears about this!” he declared.

  “Sal will back me up, I assure you.”

  “I’m not talking about any gotdamn Sal! I’m talking about Tommy Gabrini! Sal will do whatever Tommy tells him to do and I have known Mr. Gabrini for a long, long time. You have messed up now, sister!”

  And Camdon left. Gemma continued to smile, and then she laughed. The way that middle-aged white man said sister, as if he was a brother, was amusing to her. Then she shook her head. Men, she thought. Why, whenever she had to make decisions in the corporate world, was it always men who gave her such fits?

  But regardless, she knew she had done the right thing. When Sal was down and needed his estate manager to step up most, Camdon decided to play dead. He decided to be seen as a fixer and good guy in the eyes of the freeloading tenants, rather than do his job. That was the bottom line for her. And that was why his threat didn’t amount to a hill of beans in her mind. He could run to Tommy and Mommy and Rommy as far as she was concerned. His mouth and attitude, not to mention his sorry-ass work product, got him canned.

  She continued to work, going over all of the Wingate’s books with a fine-tooth comb, and the hours ticked away. Then suddenly, noise. Carmen ran into the study.

  “He won’t listen, Miss Jones!” she said.

  Gemma looked up from the books. “Sal? I told you not to disturb him when he fell asleep.”

  “I didn’t disturb him, ma’am. He disturbed me! I was cleaning up the guest room when I heard noise in his room. When I went in there, to make sure he was okay, he was getting out of bed!”

  Gemma jumped up. The doctors had wanted him to take it easy with his recovery. It had been yet another week since he was fully awake, and he had a physical therapist working with him ever since, but his body wasn’t supposed to be fully there yet. He was never supposed to try and get up without the therapist handy. The therapist wasn’t even in the building!

  Gemma, with Carmen on her heels, hurried out of the study, around the corner, and toward the stairs. Gemma stopped in her tracks when she saw Sal at the top of the stairs. Carmen, who nearly ran into Gemma when she stopped so fast, placed her hand on her heart.

  Sal was in his bathrobe and was grimacing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t walk on his own, he could. But because of the damage the bullets had done to his spine, ther
e was considerable pain still whenever he tried to walk without aid. He had never attempted to come downstairs, even with assistance yet. Now he was attempting to come down on his own.

  Gemma at first wanted to run to him and assist him. He could tumble down those stairs and harm himself in a serious way. But her instincts told her to stay where she was. Sal was no weakling. He was not the kind of man who was going to go with anybody’s else’s timetable for his recovery. He knew his body. He knew what he was capable of. He hadn’t come down yet, she believed, because he knew he wasn’t ready. But now, today, he decided he was ready. And she had to trust and believe in him enough to allow him that try.

  But as he began to walk down the stairs, Carmen panicked. “Mr. Sal,” she said, “you can’t. You must go back to bed!”

  “Damn that bed!” Sal barked back. “You want it, you get in it. I’m not staying in anybody’s bed another second!”

  Carmen looked at Gemma. Was she going to stand for this? But Gemma was staring at Sal. She had to stand for it. For his sake, she had to let it stand.

  It was slow going, as Sal seemed more and more winded with every step he took. Beads of sweat were appearing on his forehead, his thick, brown hair was getting matted against his head, but he held onto that railing and handled the pain one step at a time.

  But by the time he was halfway down, he nearly fell. Carmen moved quickly in her attempt to go and help him, but Gemma just as quickly grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. And Gemma kept her eyes on her man.

  Sure enough, Sal recovered from that near-fall and continued to walk down his stairs. He was the man of this house, and he, it seemed to Gemma, was asserting himself.

  When he made it to the last step, and was finally completely down, she smiled. “About time,” she said.

  He smiled back at her, but the pain was still as real as air. And his breathing was very labored. “Will you,” he said between breaths, “help me to the sofa?”

  Carmen moved in front of Gemma to assist him, but he rebuked her movement. “I want Gemma,” he said.