If ‘sorry’ could have made it all better, I would have walked right out of the hospital and never looked back. But deep down I knew the boy who watched over me with quiet attentiveness was the same boy who had put a bullet in my uncle in the warehouse. And yet when Nic looked at me with those gold-flecked eyes, it was hard to ignore the flutter in my stomach, the weakness in my arms when I tried to push him away.
The line between right and wrong was a dark, blurry gap, and I had fallen down inside it.
When I woke up screaming, there was something hovering in the blackness – a strange winged shape upon the walls. I tried to blink it away, but the form grew crisper, taller. Real. I strangled my screams and sat bolt upright, crushing myself against the pillow. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Either this was the creepiest nurse in history, or I was about to get murdered. She edged closer to me until the half-light from underneath the door flickered along her frame. I had only seen Elena Genovese-Falcone twice before – once in Valentino’s portrait of her, and once in a newspaper article about the funeral of Don Angelo Falcone, Nic’s father. She had been in Europe when Nic and his brothers had first moved to Cedar Hill.
In person, she was statuesque. Her frame was narrow and crisp around the edges – a consequence of tight-fitting, tailored clothes. The tip of her nose swooped upwards into a point and her dark hair was wound into a bun. She was gripping the bars at the end of my bed. If we were in a superhero movie, she might have ripped them right off, the way she was tensing her fists around them.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You are the Gracewell girl.’
Her voice was plummy, and edged with a faint Italian accent. It wasn’t a question, more of an accusation, and I had the sudden sense of being caught in a trap. Which was stupid, considering that was my name and she hadn’t exactly jumped any hurdles to figure it out.
‘Yes,’ I said, a tremor tripping through my voice as I reached for the bedside light and flicked it on. ‘That’s me.’
The room lit up and I felt marginally more confident. I could probably duck and roll if I needed to, but as far as I could see she wasn’t brandishing a weapon. Unless you counted the patronizing smirk. The light had enveloped her harshly, illuminating a made-up face with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her hooded eyes were a familiar searing blue.
I smoothed the greasy wisps of hair away from my face. Let her take a good look at what her family did to me. Let her see the yellowing bruises, my swollen cheeks. I would stand my ground – I would show her I wasn’t afraid. Even if I was totally and completely terrified. ‘May I ask what you’re doing in my room at this hour, Mrs Falcone?’
If she was surprised by my knowledge of who she was, she didn’t let it show. I guess any halfwit could nail a game of ‘Spot the Falcone’. Just look for the shampoo-commercial hair or those I-might-murder-you eyes.
Her lips reset into a thin line. ‘You and I have a problem.’
‘And what problem would that be?’
She straightened, folding her arms across her chest. Well. She was tall. ‘You have done something to my sons.’
Sheesh. Talk about being selective with information. ‘If you’re referring to Luca, then yes, I did do something. I saved his life.’
‘Something else,’ she clarified with cool indignation. ‘Don’t try and be smart with me.’
I guess saving her son was not going to earn me any brownie points. ‘I have returned to a disastro. Nicoli is pre-occupied. Distracted. You have gotten inside his head, like a worm.’
I slow-blinked at her. ‘Did you … did you just call me a worm?’
‘That’s what you are. An American worm.’
‘I am not a worm.’ That was a particular combination of words I never thought I’d have to say. Was this how mobsters insulted each other? If I was braver, I might have called her a dung beetle and stuck my tongue out. ‘I’m a girl,’ I added for further clarification, feeling a little bit like an indignant two-year-old.
‘A stupid girl,’ she hissed. She was way too close now. I could see the shine on her Botoxed forehead. ‘You should have minded your own business.’
‘Don’t you know what happened?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you have any idea?’
She stared through me, nonplussed. My voice grew a little stronger and I pressed on, trying to make her see sense. ‘Do you think I enjoy being in this hospital bed? Do you think I like my face being this shade of yellow and purple? I was dragged into your family’s twisted games. I never wanted to be a part of any of this.’