“Sophie?” A tinkling bell infiltrated my bubble.
I rolled my head around and landed on my right cheek, which throbbed dully beneath me, like the pain was just outside of my body, looking in. I tried to groan, but it caught in my throat and wheezed out in pathetic puffs of nothingness.
“Sweetheart?” My vision sharpened until my mother’s face loomed just inches from my own. Her eyes were glassy and her face was drawn. “How are you feeling?”
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find the words, and I knew even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to push them out. I scrunched up my face and blinked over and over until my mother’s movements became disjointed.
“The doctor has given you morphine. You have two broken ribs and a broken nose. Don’t worry if you feel a little strange.” She reached over to my unobscured hand and squeezed it tightly. The sensation was little more than a slight tickle.
For every moment I lay there, feeling high and low all at once, memories flashed across my addled brain. I remembered the pain of every Calvino-inflicted blow; the argument with Luca at Felice’s mansion; a long, meandering drive to nowhere. I pulled my hands under the blankets and, dimly, I became aware of the hospital gown I was wearing. Beside me, on the bedside locker, my tank top and cutoffs were folded in a pile. The top of a switchblade peaked out from my front pocket. There were more flickers of confusion and then something real, another disjointed memory. It was Luca’s knife. But why did I have it again? I scrunched my eyes shut and tried to reach inside the darkest parts of my mind.
When I opened them, Nic had appeared inside the room, looking like he hadn’t slept in a very long time; his hair was tousled across his forehead and dark circles had spread out under his eyes. He handed a paper cup of coffee to my mother and sat next to her so that their faces appeared side by side. For a second I could have sworn they were nothing more than floating heads, but then the morphine crest subsided enough for me to register some level of reality.
“You’re awake.” He released a small smile.
I moaned breathlessly in response.
Nic leaned in until his dark eyes dominated my limited field of vision. “You are stubborn, Sophie Gracewell,” he chided softly. “I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you.”
I tried to remember more. The faint memory of shouting filled my brain, but it floated away again. I stared at Nic so hard I felt tears stream from my eyes and slide back into my hair.
He gently traced his forefinger under my swollen eye; I desperately wanted to feel his touch, but I couldn’t. “I’ll make this right,” he said. “I promise.”
I closed my eyes, remembering the old, dank smell of the warehouse with a start. I saw a line of scattered crates stretch out before me into the darkness. Nic and his brothers were standing in a solitary patch of light, arguing.
When I opened my eyes again, Nic was lifting his hand away from my face, but his attention was still trained on me. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
In my botched peripheral vision, I could make out my mother; pools of tears were spilling into the corners of her eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about any of this. I thought you were with Millie until Jack came banging on the door. I had no idea what he was doing. I had no idea about any of this.”
I could see her then, in another time and place, weeping as she was now, wearing the same pajamas, and slippers I had gotten her for Christmas.
I reached out and patted her arm in what I hoped was reassurance, but I could barely feel the gesture because of the morphine. When I felt satisfied with the feeble attempt, I tried to sit up.
“Stop,” Nic murmured, putting his hand on mine. “Don’t try to move just yet, OK?”
Stop. Nic had yelled that in the warehouse. That was right before he shot Jack. Jack. “Jack,” I wheezed. It barely made a sound, but my mother understood.
“It appears your uncle made it out alive.” There was no emotion in her voice. I wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Cautiously I flicked my gaze to Nic. His expression was unreadable. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or not by the news, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. I looked away from him, too, but our fingers remained entwined.
When my head hit the pillow again it seemed to lift the rest of the fog in my brain. My memory flashed; the bullets were raining down around me as I huddled with my mother on the floor. I saw Jack, first holding a gun, and then clutching his hand as spurts of blood ran down his arm. Below us, Luca’s eyelids fluttered, his chest heaving unsteadily. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, and my fingers were inside his body, holding him together.