Page 8 of Wounded King

"I'll try. I'm sorry, Mom." I use my fingers now to massage the bridge of my nose, trying in vain not to let frustration get the better of me.

"You always think you're so grown up, but you're still my baby. I won't survive losing you." She doubles down, and this time, the guilt of worrying her settles over me like a heavy coat.

"I love you, too," I whisper. My throat tightens. "Call me when you get there."

"I will. And Vi... you better quit. I mean it."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I expected concern, but this? This is peak mom-level panic. She knows I can't just quit. I won't. I might not love the job as much as I used to, but it pays the bills—bills I'd have to cover from my savings otherwise.

"Mom, it's fine. He's just a patient."

"Then why do I have to leave? Hm?"

I hate when she makes sense. "Please, just take everyone and go. Promise me, okay?"

A long, dramatic sigh follows. "Fine. But you promise me you'll think about quitting."

That's probably not going to happen, but if the assurance makes her happy, I have no problem lying. "I will. Call me. I love you."

"I love you too, pumpkin, more than you'll ever know."

I return to Marcello's room and find a beautiful young woman, probably a few years younger than me, sitting at his bedside, holding his hand.

When I enter, tear-streaked, gray-green eyes look up at me. "Are you his nurse?"

I walk over and hold out my hand. "Yes, I'm Violet."

"Here." She presses a heavy ruby-studded bracelet into my hand. "And here." She pulls out matching earrings from her ears. "Please. I need you to do everything you can. I can't lose him, too." She sobs.

Luciano clears his throat while I stare dumbfounded at the jewelry in my hand. "Sophia, I don't think…"

"I'll write you a check, too. Just tell me how much," Sophia cries.

I gently put the jewelry on the bed, kneel beside her, and say, "This isn't necessary. I assure you, your brother is getting the very best care humanly possible."

"He won't wake up," she says as tears run down her cheeks.

"Has anybody explained to you what happened to him?" I ask carefully.

"He was shot," she sobs.

I put my hands on her knees, in part to balance myself as I hunker on the floor and in part to convey my sincerity and sympathy. "He was shot multiple times, yes. The doctors say they will all heal in time."

"But he's not waking up." She hiccups.

"The worst of his injuries is his head wound," I nod at the thick white bandage around his head. "The bullet took out part of his skull." Another sob escapes her.

"Violet, with all due respect, I don't think?—"

I don't let Luciano finish. Sometimes it's best to explain a patient's condition to their loved one in plain English and with as much detail as possible. Sophia strikes me as someone who needs the honest, if not brutal, truth. "His brain wasn't directly damaged by the bullet, but there is some brain swelling, which is why the doctors put him into an artificial coma."

"Okay," she nods, her tears slowing down. "So they'll wake him up? When?"

"As soon as the swelling is down. Then they'll put a new piece of bone or metal in to seal his skull back up."

A ragged breath escapes her, but she sits up a bit straighter, wiping her eyes, and nods. "Thank you."

She puts her hands over mine. "Thank you." She repeats.