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MONTE

T hey are finally removing the handcuffs.

The only reason why I care is because now someone might answer my questions about Sabrina instead of avoiding eye contact and retreating.

For the last three hours, I’ve been reliving the moment she went limp in my arms.

“Can I have your last name? As if I really am your wife?”

She asked me this and then she closed her eyes. I thought my soul had left my body. My fingers shook as I felt for her pulse and it was fluttery but it was there. She was still unconscious as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove away. I figured that I wouldn’t be allowed to go with her and I wasn’t.

The dead man, whoever he was, faltered when Sabrina got in the way. He didn’t mean to shoot her. He only meant to shoot me and I wish he had. But his panic over hitting the wrong target cost him everything. I raised my gun and squeezed off three quick shots that ended him.

Then I looked down and saw the blood. And my heart disintegrated.

I should have understood what was happening when she started running to me. Sabrina never runs anywhere. Her face was full of determination. And fear as well. She’d seen our attacker before I did. She knew what was coming.

The girl I love took a bullet that was meant only for me. She tried to save my life and now she’s somewhere in this hospital fighting for hers. I don’t know how to live with that.

“How would I know how your wife is?” grunts the cop who’d been guarding me before he got the call to remove my handcuffs. “Ask a doctor.”

I don’t even have the energy to call him a dick. He doesn’t fucking matter.

The curtain is yanked aside. A familiar face steps into the cubicle where I’ve been cuffed to a hospital gurney since I got here.

The newcomer gives the cop a nod of dismissal and waits until he leaves. He was on the scene at the carnival. He took charge and began managing the crowd so the ambulance could get through. Now he takes a seat in the grey chair the cop had been sitting in.

“I’m Ethan Krull,” he says. “I already know your name, Monte, but we didn’t get a chance to formally meet yet. I was the police chief around here until three months ago when I retired.”

“That’s nice,” I say and climb off the gurney. “But now that I’m unshackled I’m going to find my wife.”

“Hold on,” he says. “I’ve been told your wife’s being prepped for surgery so we’ve got time.”

“Where is she? Is she awake? I need to see her.”

“She’s stable,” he says. “That’s all I know.”

A relieved breath escapes from me with a whoosh. The night is far from over but ‘stable’ is a good sign.

“She’s being taken care of,” he assures me. “This is a good hospital to be in if you’re ever shot. I would know.” He points to the bandage on my arm. “That doesn’t look too bad.”

“It’s nothing. The bullet went clean through her and lodged in my arm. They already dug it out.” I clear my painfully dry throat. “The shot was meant for me. Not her.”

He nods, unsurprised. “I saw what happened. I was sitting in my truck nearby, waiting to pick up my daughter. That’s the reason why you’re no longer wearing cuffs. The DA will still take a look at the case and you might be facing a charge for carrying in a prohibited area. But I can vouch for the fact that the shots you fired were very clear self-defense. The guy had no ID but I’ll get a picture from the morgue to see if you can identify him.”

“Fine,” I say, able to feel only hatred for the man I killed.

He folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Any clue as to who might want you dead?”

The question makes me want to laugh. There are a lot of men who could think of reasons to want me dead.

But a glance at my bandaged arm leaves me with a sick suspicion. By coincidence, the bullet penetrated an inch below the bottom of my tattoo.

Family is everything.

Five other men in the world wear exactly the same ink. One of them is my brother. The others I don’t want to think about.

“You give it some thought,” Ethan Krull says in a wry voice that suggests he knows I have a pretty good idea who might be responsible.

But I’m far from sure. My uncle had his chance to kill me at the ranch. He could have ordered his sons to take me into the wilderness and make it look like an accident.

On the other hand, Cass Tempesta’s methods are often unpredictable. There’s a notorious story about how he once dismissed a crew boss for suspected theft. Supposedly, the guy had been skimming the profits from a family-owned construction company. When he was caught, he probably expected to get a hole in the head immediately. Instead, my uncle invited him to dinner, sat him down and assured him that two decades of loyalty was worth a free pass. He’d be banished from the family and that’s all.

For a full year Cass let the man believe he was off the hook. The guy moved to Phoenix, started over. Then one of my cousins showed up at his house, found him in the backyard swimming laps, and blew his brains out. For this reason and more, I definitely can’t count out the Tempestas.

“How long have you been married?” Ethan asks in a much gentler tone.

“I married Sabrina on the Fourth of July,” I tell him, which is true and far less complicated than the entire truth.

He nods. “Like I said, she’s in good hands here. My wife and I will pray for her full recovery.” He reaches into the pocket of his thin jacket and pulls out my phone. “Here. I’m sure you’ll want this back.”

The phone had been taken away by the cop who slapped the cuffs on me. Luckily, I managed to place a call to my brother first. Nico was shocked and grim but promised he would inform Sabrina’s sisters.

Ethan rises from his chair and hands over the phone. “I’ll leave you alone for now,” he says. “But if you need to get in touch with me, just call the Cherrytown PD. They’ll pass the message along.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, aware that I owe this guy some more gratitude but unable to summon any feeling besides sick worry for Sabrina.

On his way out, he nearly runs into Dr. Cohen, who skillfully dug a bullet out of my arm a short time ago. The two men, who clearly know each other, exchange a quick greeting before Dr. Cohen focuses on me.

“I need to see my wife,” I say. “Where is she?”

The doctor doesn’t seem offended by my growly tone. A middle aged man with a modest dark blue kippah on his balding head, there’s a patient, fatherly energy about him. Earlier, as he stitched up my arm, he assured me he’d find out Sabrina’s status.

“Your wife is now in surgery,” he says. “I’m told she was awake and alert and all of her vitals remain stable.”

It’s a good thing I’m still sitting on the gurney because I’m instantly weak with relief. “How long will she be in surgery?”

“That depends. I’ll make sure you stay updated. As her husband, you’ll be able to see her when she’s taken to recovery. It seems she’d been asking for you nonstop.”

My throat is still dry as hell and now a sour sense of regret threatens to choke off my air supply. Sabrina, frightened and hurt and surrounded by strangers, had been asking for me and I wasn’t there to comfort her.

Dr. Cohen briefly disappears and when he returns, he’s carrying a clear plastic cup filled with water. He offers it with a kind smile. “This hospital is full of good humans,” he says. “Your wife is receiving the best care. But if you’re inclined to pray, you can follow the arrows pointing to the hospital chapel. All are welcome.”

I gulp my cup of water and reach for my shirt. It’s covered with blood, both mine and hers, but I don’t have anything else.

Dr. Cohen reads my mind and says, “A nurse will bring you a clean shirt.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” I say.

He nods and jerks the cubicle curtain open. “If you need something for the pain, let us know.”

I don’t. I keep forgetting that I was shot at all.

The first thing I do is look at my phone. Naturally, there’s a heap of messages. From Luca. From Anni. From Daisy. From my father.

Not even a minute has passed and I’m still looking through them and deciding who to call first when a nurse walks in carrying a New York Mets t-shirt. Under different circumstances this might be funny because I’ve been a Yankees fan all my life but right now nothing is funny so I just throw it on.

There’s no privacy here with all kinds of hospital staff and patients milling around so I start walking in search of a quieter place to make some calls.

I’m in the middle of a long, empty corridor when there’s the buzz of an incoming call. I’m expecting any number of people. But when I see who is really calling, instant rage blazes through my blood. I answer with murder on my mind.

“Are you calling to fucking gloat, Julian?”

“Monte, it wasn’t us,” my cousin says. “I swear we had nothing to do with this.”

“Why the fuck should I believe that?”

He sighs. “All right. I haven’t given you much reason to trust my word. None of us have. But I know my father and he never wanted you dead. Never.”

“Then explain how you heard the news in such a big fat fucking hurry. Nobody from my family would call you.”

He hesitates. “Vittorio Messina ought to vet his men better. One of them is a cheap date.”

“You’re trying to tell me that you’ve risked Vittorio’s wrath by putting one of his guys on your payroll?”

If true, the news would be troubling and yet it fits.

After all, someone went out of their way to inform the Tempestas when I was staying one state away.

That same person must have been in a rush to break the news about tonight’s shooting.

“Yes,” he says. “Think about it. We’re taking a risk by coming clean but we can’t have you thinking we’re the ones who shot your wife.”

He’s going to need to do a lot better than that if he wants me to believe him.

“Swear on your mother’s grave, Julian.”

“Monte, I swear on my mother’s grave and my very own fucking life that we did NOT try to kill you and we don’t know who did.”

I lean against a wall of windows. My reflection in the opposite window stares back at me.

“If you’re waiting for a trophy or some shit you’ll be waiting for a long time,” I say.

He sighs on the other end. “How is she?”

“The bullet went right through her. She’s in surgery.” I don’t care that my voice cracks and I can hardly breathe.

“I’m so damn sorry,” Julian says softly. “Truly. We all are. If we can help, let us know. Dad can pull some strings and get her transferred to any of the best hospitals. Just say the word.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve got to go, Julian.”

“You take care, Monte.”

I press the button to end the call without saying anything else. The signs pointing to the hospital chapel are straight ahead. Weddings and funerals aside, I haven’t been inside a church in quite some time. I’m counting on the fact that an earnest prayer can’t hurt even when it’s spoken by a corrupt sinner.

The room is hushed and empty. Symbols from many different faiths hang on the walls. An open book sits atop the lectern at the front of the room. A pen is nestled between the pages to encourage new signers. Scanning the messages scrawled by other hands, there are words of grief and hope. Looking at them too closely feels like an intrusion so I simply take the pen and add my own words to the next empty line.

I love you, wife. Please come back to me.

Then I set the pen down and take a seat on the nearest cushioned bench. I pull out the chain around my neck so that the cross is visible outside my shirt. The room’s complete silence rings in my ears.

“I don’t know if anyone is listening. Just in case there is, please know that I love that girl far more than my own life. She makes the world a better place. And if one of us needs to go, then let it be me, not her.”

It goes without saying that I don’t expect an answer but one comes anyway.

“I think your wife would put up a hell of an argument with you, son,” says Sal Castelli.

My father watches from the door. He starts walking to me and he opens his arms.

I stand and meet him halfway, already sobbing as I fall into his embrace. My dad, forever my hero, holds me up and lets me cry. When Nico walks in, I pull him into our family huddle.

And I don’t know how long I stand there in the middle of the hospital chapel, being held by my father and my brother.

But I do know that when they finally let go, I can breathe a little bit easier.