"Oh my God, you're so bad!"
Gabriella Russo glanced up from where she sat at the information desk in the Presbyterian Surgical ICU, glaring daggers at the back of the pair of nurses: Cindy Lou Who and her spiteful old friend, the Grinch. Cindy's blonde hair was French braided into pigtails, while the Grinch wore hers incredibly short, a sandy-colored mop balanced on top of her head. Both wore bright blue scrubs, the usual around there… a fact that Cindy often whined about. Why can't we wear patterns? I've got these kitty-cat scrubs I'm dying to show off!
Oblivious to the attention, the nurses continued with their gossip as Cindy giggled.
She giggled.
"I'm just being honest. Who cares if he lives? They're going to send him over here to us, and for what? He's just going to take up a bed. And I don't care what the charge nurse says… I'm not taking care of him. I want nothing to do with that. I'm not busting my ass saving his life when we're all probably better off if the guy dies, anyway."
"I feel the same way."
Gabriella cleared her throat, loud enough to make both nurses look at her. Cindy was thirty, while the Grinch—real name Geraldine—had to be pushing fifty. Both had seniority over Gabriella, at barely twenty-six, but neither seemed to have a lick of compassion.
Cindy, at least, had the sense to appear ashamed at being overheard, but the Grinch just rolled her eyes, like Gabriella's intrusion was a mere annoyance to her.
Before Gabriella could say anything, chaos erupted in the ICU, security rushing onto the floor, escorting a tall, thick-built man wearing a black suit. Gabriella recognized him, shock running through her.
Primo Galante.
Oh my God.
It can't be.
Security showed him to the waiting lounge across from the information desk, trailing him. Whether they did it for his protection or everyone else's safety, Gabriella wasn't quite sure. Probably a bit of both. But his sudden presence on the floor meant one thing—his son had survived surgery.
"I've got other things to take care of," the Grinch said, keeping her head down as she scurried away. Cindy, on the other hand, couldn't stop staring as the man feverishly paced. It wasn't until the elevator doors opened again, the patient wheeled in, that Cindy sprinted from the hallway, ducking out of sight. Friggin scaredy-cat.
At once, Primo was back out in the hallway, barking orders at everyone. Do this. Do that. Don't just stand there. Do something! Security intervened, to calm him, but the man was determined… Gabriella had to give him that.
"Nurse?" the attending on duty shouted. Dr. Michael Crabtree. He was a frigid little man, one Gabriella was never particularly fond of working with, but he was at least good at what he did. The doctor looked around, his face scrunching from annoyance. "Where did the nurse go?"
Gabriella sighed. The Grinch was on point. She'd been assigned that room and whatever patient ended up in it. But it was obvious from the disappearing act that she hadn't been kidding about not treating him.
"I can take this one,” Gabriella said before the charge nurse had to intervene and go hunt down the Grinch, who clearly wouldn’t be any help to the patient. "I'll switch rooms with Gr—uh, Nurse Geraldine. Not a problem.”
Monica Burns, the charge nurse, eyed her warily before shrugging it off and switching their rooms on the board, giving Gabriella the patient.
"What is she, a teenager?" Primo bellowed, glaring at Gabriella as she approached. "I want a real nurse, not some girl playing dress up!"
Gabriella let him have that one. She did look young.
"Nurse Russo is exceptional at her job," Crabtree said, shooting her a look that said he might not believe his own words. There was panic in his eyes, something that wasn't good coming from the doctor in charge. "She's fully capable of looking after Mr. Galante, as capable as every other nurse on staff."
"Maybe you're all incompetent!"
Gabriella ignored their back-and-forth, sliding past the men into the room. It cleared out as staff got the patient hooked up to all of the machines. The ICU worked like an assembly line in a factory. Everyone had a specific job and they did it efficiently. In, out, away. Until a problem arose, it mostly all fell on the nurse. Her job was to make sure he stayed alive. To make sure his heart kept beating. To make sure he kept breathing.
No big deal, right?
"If you mess up, so help me God, you're going to regret it," Primo growled. "Every single one of you will pay. I'll see to it. I'll have your jobs. I'll have your lives!"
Worried glances were exchanged between some of the staff as security again stepped in, attempting to calm the man down. Gabriella tried to shut it all out, focusing her attention on the patient. She paused when she looked down at him, her stomach clenching at the sight of his battered body.
Dante Galante.
Crabtree joined them, clutching a chart, the glass door to the small room sliding closed behind the doctor as Primo grudgingly stayed out in the hall.
Right away, they went through his diagnosis, listing a host of problems, a laundry list of wounds that had been inflicted. Gabriella listened, taking it all in as her eyes stayed glued to his face.
What in the world happened to him?
He was intubated, not breathing on his own, the whole gauntlet of intervention done. While alive, yes, she wasn't sure he would stay that way. Death knocked on his door, begging to be let in, and judging from the look of him, it wouldn't be hard for Death to pull off some breaking & entering, robbing him of his last breath in his sleep.
He lay there, not moving, his eyes closed. For someone with such a big reputation, she thought, he sure seemed… small.
"I want to be clear here that complications are not allowed," Crabtree said. "I'd rather we do too much than not enough. So we're going to monitor him closely and get him the hell out of here as soon as possible. Understand?"
A murmur of agreement flowed through the room.
Once Dante was stable, the room cleared out, all except for Gabriella and the doctor. She continued to stare down at him, not moving, watching as a tear slid from the corner of his eye, running down the side of his face, the pillow beneath his head absorbing all evidence of it.
"Are you okay, Nurse Russo?" Crabtree asked. "I need you on the same page with us here."
"I'm fine," she said quietly. "He's, uh… crying."
Crabtree scribbled something in the chart before closing it, not even looking at the patient. "It's a natural defense. All it means are his tear ducts are working. A miracle, really, considering everything else on him seems to be broken. Someone worked him over good."
Good. That word felt so wrong in that context.
There was nothing good about the condition he was in.
"I know you were taking your break when you got pulled into this, so go ahead and grab a few minutes to yourself," Crabtree suggested. "Catch your breath."
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, and the patient's father is his decision-maker, so make sure you introduce yourself properly, you know, since everything will have to flow through him."
Gabriella scowled. Being a critical care nurse meant that a good chunk of her job was spent dealing with families. No matter how distraught, Gabriella had to help them see what was best for the patient. Just as she occasionally offered hope, more often than not, she was in the business of crushing dreams with realism. Often people clung to every miniscule sign of life, ignoring the blatant signs of an inevitable death, causing more suffering than what would've been natural.
But how do you explain that to someone without sounding like the worst person in the world?
Stepping out of the room, she hesitated, coming face to face with Primo. "Mr. Galante, I'm—"
"I don't care." His voice was sharp. "Who you are means nothing to me. Just… fix him."
Despite the harshness of his tone, Gabriella sensed the fear in those words.
"We'll do everything we can," she said. "They're going to be running some tests soon, but you're welcome to v
isit with him for a few minutes, if you'd like."
Primo looked past her, into the room. "I would."
"And I know he's unconscious, and he looks like he's sleeping, but it's widely believed that people in his condition are capable of hearing what everyone is saying. Talking to him may help him wake up sooner."
Primo simply nodded before stepping into the room, passing the doctor on his way out. Gabriella watched as Primo stalled at the end of the bed, just staring at his son in silence.
He didn't utter a single word.
Sighing, Gabriella walked away, giving the man some privacy. She headed to the elevator, taking it down to the first floor, and steered toward the cafeteria, desperate for some coffee. Strong coffee. The blackest, bitterest coffee ever produced, with obscene amounts of caffeine in it, the kind with enough of a jolt to jumpstart a racecar.
Still a few hours left in her shift before she could even think of going home.
"Oh my God, it's so crazy, right?" a young girl whisper-shouted into her cell phone, sitting alone at a small table inside the little on-site coffee shop. She wore a set of scrubs, a nursing assistant badge clipped to her. "Cindy that works up there texted me a minute ago and said he is all fucked up."
Gabriella shook her head before ordering a large coffee. Un-friggin-believable. The folks at the hospital would figure out how to cure cancer before they ever came up with a solution to eradicate the infectious gossip.
"It just makes me wonder, you know, about the other one," the girl continued, her voice no quieter. "You know, that thing that happened last night? The explosion? I heard that guy was one of them, too. I mean, maybe not as bad." She paused, laughing. "Don't you think it's all kind of… I don't know… exciting?"
Walking by the table, Gabriella snatched the girl's phone right out of her hand, pressing the button on the screen to hang it up. She dropped the phone back down in front of her, letting it hit the table with a thud.
"Hey!" the girl exclaimed. "What's your damage, lady?"
"They're people," Gabriella said, her voice shaking as she tried to hold it together. "Real people, with real lives, and people who love them. You want to talk about someone's death? Want some misfortune to find exciting? Go watch Grey's Anatomy."
Thick black smoke rolled out from beneath the hood of the truck, tainting the early morning sky. The stench singed Matty's nose, making him grimace when he inhaled. The sun was just starting to peek up over the horizon and already the day was off to a terrible start.
"So, uh... can I start worrying now or what?"
Matty cut his eyes at Genna as he turned the truck key for probably the tenth time, listening as the starter stuttered, but the engine refused to come to life. Cursing, he gave up and slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
Worry?
Yeah, it was time to start worrying.
Exasperated, he leaned back in the seat and stared through the grubby windshield at the long stretch of highway in front of them. Genna's gaze burned through him as perspiration rolled down the side of his face.
Matty was sweating, literally and figuratively.
He was so in over his head he was surprised he could still even breathe. It felt like the world was on his shoulders, pressing upon his chest, trying to suffocate him. It was a burden he willingly took on, a weight he was happy to carry if it meant Genna had less to worry about, but he could only do so much. He only knew so much. He had the best intentions, but he was nothing more than a guy—a guy with flaws and limitations, and little more than a fucking broken down truck.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted, offering the quiet concession as smoke surrounded them like an ominous black cloud.
"Well," Genna said, "lucky for you, I do."
Before he could ask what, Genna hopped out of the truck, slamming the door behind her. Matty climbed out and walked around to the back when she started that direction.
"There were some houses about a quarter of a mile back," she said, digging through the things they'd bought at the store. "They were right off the highway."
"You think we should go for help?"
"Something like that."
"I'll go—"
"Oh no, you won't," she said, cutting him off as she shoved something in her pocket, a smile touching her lips. "I will."
"But—"
"You heard me," she said, jabbing him in the chest with her pointer finger. "We've done it your way, Matty, and that's cool, but I'm not useless. And I swear to God, if you don't stop treating me with kid gloves, I'm going to punch you so hard you see stars for a week. I mean it. I'm not fragile. If I were, I would've already shattered by now."
Matty stood there, stunned by her outburst. Maybe she wasn't fragile, but she wasn't indestructible either. As much as she tried to conceal it, there was vulnerability beneath her hard exterior. He had seen as much the night before when she cracked, pent-up grief and fear shining through.
But he believed she meant it… he didn't doubt that she would hit him if he didn't take a step back, if he didn't give her space. So as hard as it was, as much as he hated it, he waved her away. "Go on then, Princess."
Grinning, Genna reached up on her tiptoes and planted a quick peck on his lips before turning away. Matty let down the truck's tailgate and plopped down on it, watching her strut down the highway.
Thirty minutes.
She had half an hour before he went after her. Instinctively, he glanced at his wrist, groaning when he came up empty. He never replaced his watch after Genna hustled it from him in their game of pool. Sighing, he leaned back on his elbows, not yet letting her leave his line of sight, his chest aching more the further away she got.
Maybe he'd make it twenty minutes instead.
She disappeared from the highway, cutting through some trees back toward the houses. Matty drummed his fingers on the rusty truck bed, impatiently counting in his head. How long had it been? Five minutes… ten… maybe fifteen?
It felt like hours to him.
Jumping to his feet, he wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt as he walked away from the truck. He'd made it a few steps when an older-model black Honda Accord sped toward him, swerving off the side of the road and skidding to a stop in the grass in front of Matty. Alarmed, he took a step back, eyes wide when the driver's side door flung open and Genna popped out.
He gaped at her. "What the hell did you do?"
"Got us some help," she said, leaving the door open as she rounded the front and banged on the hood.
"You stole another car?"
She cut her eyes at him, amused. "Come on, you're not really surprised, are you? I mean, this is sort of what I do, isn't it?"
"Not surprised," he said, shaking his head. "More like impressed."
Genna stepped to him, fisting the front of his sweat-streaked plain white t-shirt as she smirked, pulling him down for another kiss. "Told you I wasn't useless."
Matty transferred their things to the backseat of the Honda before climbing behind the wheel. He took a quick stock of the car as Genna settled into the passenger seat, cold air blasting out of the vents in the dashboard. He scanned the interior, noticing a small screwdriver jammed into the ignition.
Leave it to Genna to consider thievery tools a bare necessity.
Shrugging it off, he put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway, giving a quick glance at the broken down truck in the rearview mirror as he sped past it. "So a Honda, huh?"
"Yeah, you got a problem with that?"
"No." He let out a laugh at her defensive tone. "Why would I?"
She shrugged, relaxing back into the seat. "Some people do. But mid-90s Accords are probably the most commonly stolen cars. They're also one of the most popular cars. So that means there's a lot of them out there, and they go missing all the time, and well... it's easier to stay inconspicuous when you blend in."
"You put a lot of thought into that."
Genna turned to watch out the side window. "You might prefer to live
in the moment, but I like having a plan. The easiest way to keep out of trouble is to always stay a few steps ahead."
They drove for about an hour until the gas light in the car lit up, flickering a dull orange, the needle hovering near empty. Matty pulled off the highway to the first store they came upon. Genna went inside, snatching a pack of Twizzlers from the candy aisle and tearing it open, gnawing on a rope of licorice as she strolled through the store. After fixing herself a cherry slushie, she grabbed a bag of cheese puffs and a honey bun before heading to the front. Matty stood by the register, paying for their gas, when Genna plopped her stuff down on the counter. He glanced at it, his eyes lingering on the open pack of licorice, and smiled as he pushed it toward the cashier. "All of this, too."
Glancing around, Genna's eyes drifted toward a rack of newspapers. She stepped that way, freezing when she caught sight of one. Right on the front page, big and bold, bore the headline:
Explosion Rocks Manhattan Neighborhood
She felt like she couldn't breathe when she saw the photo below it of the charred remains of Matty's gorgeous Lotus Evora. So cruel. Grabbing the newspaper, she stared at it, her hands trembling.
Front page of the fucking national news.
"That, too," Matty said behind her. "The newspaper."
Once their stuff was rung up, they collected it and headed out to the Honda. Genna's snacks were already forgotten, her abandoned slushie melting, as she fixated on the paper. After pumping gas, Matty climbed in the car, but he didn't drive away yet.
"What's it say?" he asked.
Genna scanned the article, struggling to absorb the words.
"It says you're presumed dead," she whispered. "They haven't found a body, obviously, but they're combing through the wreckage."
"What does it say about the explosion?"
"They suspect a mob hit. They, uh…" Genna faltered as she stumbled over the name Joseph Galante. "They compare it to the explosion that killed Joey, saying they haven't seen this level of violence in organized crime since that summer."
Matty said nothing else, starting the car up and pulling back onto the highway. Genna read the article twice more before discarding the newspaper in the backseat. She felt sick to her stomach and couldn't handle much more of it. No more reading newspapers, ugh.