Torture to Her Soul(20)

He lets out a strained laugh. "She was a mess when I got there. Out of her mind. The poor thing had more blood on her than you did. You were out like a light, but you were breathing fine, pulse weak but holding steady. Still though, she was trying to give you CPR, beating on you and blowing air into your lungs, doing more harm than good. Every time she pushed on your chest, you gushed more blood. Trying to keep you alive, and she damn near killed you doing it."

Despite myself, I smile at that. Sounds like Karissa—inadvertently fucking up my life, not even realizing what she's doing to me.

"So that's why I had you brought to the hospital," he says. "I know it's always a last resort, Vitale, but the condition you were in? The condition she was in? Felt like a last resort kind of situation to me."

"Did they report it?"

He sighs. "You know they had to."

I want to be furious at the man, for the obvious trouble bringing me here will cause, but I don't have it in me. I can't force myself to be pissed when my chest viciously aches and I can only seem to care about Karissa.

Her bitch of a mother shot me and I'm only worried about her. Go figure.

Shifting position, I grimace from the stab of pain as Carter stands up again.

"Just relax, okay?" He stares at the IV I threw to the floor and shakes his head. "I know I don't have any authority over you here... or anywhere... but I hope you trust my judgment. They're going to want to keep you here for 48 hours for observation."

"48 hours."

"Yeah, but I know you, Vitale, so I'm hoping you'll give them at least half of that. Just because it wasn't fatal doesn't mean it wasn't serious, you know."

I do know, but I say nothing, letting out a resigned sigh as I close my eyes, trying to lie still to ward off any more jolts of pain.

I fight sleep the rest of the night, too paranoid to let my guard down in a place like this, where it's too easy to get away with ending someone's life. All it takes is a slip of the wrong drug and everyone chalks it up to an accident. But there are no accidents, not where I'm concerned.

The nurse comes around, checking my vitals and trying to replace my IV, wanting to push morphine into me, but I send her scrambling away, refusing anything. The pain gets worse as whatever's in my system starts to fade, and with the agony comes the rush of bitter anger.

I'd rather end up in the morgue than the fucking hospital again.

By the time the sun rises outside, dawning a new day, I'm intolerable, unbearable, full of barely restrained fury that seeps into every word I speak, shining from my eyes at anyone who dares step foot in my vicinity.

I need the hell out of this bed.

The hell out of this place.

Out of this life, this fucking situation, this goddamn existence.

In a rash decision, I throw the blanket off and sit up, searing pain stabbing my stomach. I'm about to force myself to my feet when the door opens, voices immediately carrying through. I recognize one right away, a voice that makes the hair on my arm stand on end, every inch of me turning cold.

Blue. It's probably the only color that affects me more than red. Red is full of passion, but blue is what happens when the passion turns cold. I feel nothing—nothing—except for pure hatred, the kind that swells through the body and turns blood to ice, freezing everything inside of me when I'm doused with it. I'm a shell of a man filled with unadulterated indignation, and I make no apologies for it.

When coated in blue, I make no apologies for anything.

I look toward the doorway of the hospital room, catching sight of two men in blue uniforms with their shiny gold badges and tiny little pins bearing their names, the NYPD patches sewn on their scrawny arms. Dead center of the duo is a man wearing a drab gray suit, his voice the one chipping away at me like he's an ice pick and I'm a fucking glacier.

Detective Jameson.

The first time I met the man was in a room just like this, waking up with a broken chest and half a life left to piece together. He drilled me that day, drilled me for answers as to what happened, and I was honest.

I was too broken to keep it bottled in.

I told him Johnny Rita murdered my wife.

He told me he'd get justice.

He never did.

The man lied to me.

I can respect a murderer, and a thief, but I have no respect for someone who lies straight to my face. Say what you mean and mean what you say or don't say anything at all.

Life is too short to have the bullshit sugarcoated.

Detective Jameson strolls into the room, smiling a fake wide smile, his younger partner on his heels. I don't have much experience with Detective Andrews, personally, but he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't force a smile or pretend to be somebody he's not. He's a real prick, and that almost makes me like him.

Almost.