NINETEEN

Sofia announced as Arturo and I arrived home.

Though my feet had been battered from running without shoes, I insisted that I could walk inside on my own, and Arturo accepted, grudgingly. I still felt more than a little shaken from my run in at the bar, but the knowledge that I had inflicted nothing more than a wound soothed me.

"Sounds good," I offered weakly, glancing up at Arturo. There was a slight frown on his face, probably due to the amount of mess Sofia had made in the kitchen. On every available surface pots and pans were strewn, filled with ingredients that spilled out and trailed on to the floor.

"I've got some work I need to finish up in my office," Arturo stated.

"Aren't you staying for pizza?" I pleaded, lacing my fingers through his and squeezing them gently.

"It's urgent," he declined with a shake of his head. I could tell from the crease between his brows that something was troubling him, but I didn't dare ask what it was. Now wasn't the time.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and then turned his gaze to Sofia.

"Look after her," he instructed his sister. "And when Marco arrives, send him up."

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Sofia mock-saluted, standing to attention.

"And clean that kitchen!"

"Clean it yourself," Sofia griped, but Arturo had already made it half way up the stairs.

I made my way over to the island and examined the spread of ingredients. "Please tell me that pineapple is not on the menu."

Sofia shot me an insulted glare. "Please, that would be sacrilege. Sit down."

The sudden seriousness that pervaded her tone made me follow her command without question. I slid onto one of the chairs and watched as a glass of wine was poured in front of me.

"I don't know if it's a good idea for me to drink," I politely declined, but Sofia was having none of it.

"I know what happened today," she told me, "so drink."

I took a small sip and smiled, feeling slightly better at last. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Placing the pizza in the oven, Sofia sauntered back over and took a seat next to me. She pushed the spilt ingredients out of her way and rested her elbows on the counter. We sipped our wine in silence.

The silence dragged on. I could feel that she was watching me from the corner of her eyes, probably waiting for me to fall apart again. She probably thought I was weak. I hadn't even killed the man when I shot him, yet I still managed to feel torn up about it.

"Do you know who it was?" I asked eventually, when the weight of our silence had become too great.

"The man you shot?" I nodded. "Some Genovese soldier trying to kidnap you, probably."

"Kidnap me?" I repeated.

"You're very valuable," Sofia explained, "because you can be used to get to Arturo."

"So there's, like, a bounty on my head?"

"You could say that."

"But what happens next time when someone tries to take me?"

"We won't let them," Sofia shrugged. She said it as though it was the most simple thing in the world, but the fact was that it wasn't. Nobody could protect me forever.

"Arturo isn't invincible," I said, shaking my head. Memories of him lying in his own blood flooded my mind. It was an image that would stay with me for the rest of my life; one that would never fail to terrify me. Not because of the danger that Arturo's mortality could put me in, but because of one lingering thought: the thought of a world in which he didn't exist.

It was a world I couldn't bare.

"We will always protect you, Florence," Sofia assured me.

"Not if Arturo..."

"That man would give his life to protect you," she growled, leaning in closer. I could see a flash of anger in her chocolate eyes, and something else. Something I couldn't quite make out. "You have no idea how lucky you are."

Those words were laced with a double meaning that immediately made me regret my selfish thoughts. Sofia was married to a man who would sooner kill her than save her.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. It felt like it was already too late.

"You didn't see him...in hospital," she shook her head. "He looked like a broken toy, a battered rag-doll. He was in a coma for so long..."

"A coma?" I swallowed an uncomfortable lump that had grown in my throat.

"There was a lot of internal damage, a lot of bleeding."

"H-how long?"

"Months."

"I can't even imagine..."

"No," she agreed, "you can't. But I had to live through it, and let me tell you, it was hell."

I didn't recoil from the bitterness in her tone. All of this had happened because of me and my family. I had caused so much pain and suffering that I deserved whatever Sofia could throw at me.

"We were going to switch him off, you know."

Suddenly it felt as though my heart had plummeted. An uncomfortable ache began in my throat from resisting the urge to cry. All of this time, I'd never realised just how close we had come to a world without Arturo in it.

I hadn't realised, and now that knowledge was crushing me.

"Fuck," I cried breathlessly. "I never knew..."

Sofia took a big sip of wine. "But now he's awake. He survived that, and he will survive whatever else he has to."

"I never even asked," I realised quietly. I had been so consumed by guilt and shame that I couldn't bare to bring the subject up.

"It's not like he would have talked about it anyway."

"What was it like?" I asked nervously. It was a question I wasn't entirely sure I wanted the answer to. "What was...he like?"

Sofia faced me with a torn expression. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"I have to."

"When he woke up...he was a different man. You have to understand, he's used to being in control, and after his injuries, he couldn't do anything for himself. He was angry, confused, bitter. I don't think it's my place to tell you any more than that."

"He'll never tell me," I pleaded. "I have to know."

Sofia gave me one last glance over, then nodded firmly. "Okay..."

Sofia's Flashback

Hospitals are not places for people like us. That's the first thing I think as I burst through the front doors. The antiseptic smell hits my nose and I crinkle it. Should have brought a tissue, something to cover my mouth with.

But it's too late now, and my handbag is in my hotel room. I dropped everything to get here when they said he was waking up.

The lady at the front desk squints at me as I announce my name.

"Sofia Lucchese. Here to see Arturo Lucchese."

I leave out the fact that I am no longer, in actual fact, a Lucchese by name. These people have no idea of the meaning of family.

"May I see some identification, Miss Lucchese?" The lady asks.

I reach into my pocket and fumble for my passport. I pause, hesitating to hand it over. The receptionist's eye brow raises with impatience.

"Miss?" she prompts me again. The bags beneath her eyes deepen as she inclines her head. Long shifts, longer nights, and not enough sleep. I know the feeling.

"I..." I trail off, but can't finish. How do I explain that my passport marks me as a possession? How do I explain that my surname isn't Mammazzo - not really. But it is. In black and white, on the only legal documentation I have with me.

"I'm married," I finally tell her, relinquishing my grip on the passport. "My maiden name is Lucchese."

The woman opens up the passport and stares at it. I watch her eyes lull and then widen. She is tired. I suspect she is on overtime, her shift running through until late at night. I glance at the wall behind her. It is four a.m.

"We only admit close relatives, Mrs Mammazzo," the receptionist tells me apologetically.

"I'm Arturo's sister," I press. Another minute has rolled around on the clock and I am still stuck out here. The call first came through almost forty minutes ago. Who knows what has happened since.

"Unfortunately I can't admit you unless I have some proof of that."

"Who is visiting?" I demand, "Who is with him right now?"

"I can't disclose that information."

Another minute gone by. I snatch the passport from her hands and shove it back into my pocket. It was Marco who called me, so he must have got past security somehow. I pull out my phone and send him a text: Can't get past security. Help.

Two minutes later there is a commotion from one of the corridors. Marco is speaking in rapid Italian down the phone as he emerges into the reception area. With one final growl he shuts off the call and, blatantly ignoring the receptionist, he turns to me.

"Come with me."

This time the lady behind the front desk has nothing to say.

Marco and I walk in silence down the long, sterile corridors. It is neither a comfortable nor uncomfortable silence, but one born from mutual respect. We grew up together; we share a past; we accept, mutually, that our past is just that.

"Madre on the phone?" I ask quietly. It is my nerves making me speak, I know. It isn't often that they get the better of me, but being in a hospital has had a strange effect.

Marco shakes his head. "Padre. Wants to know how business is."

"Go figure."

"I told him about the situation..." Our conversation dips as a nurse strides past us carrying a clipboard. I watch her wearily until she has passed.

"Let me guess, he didn't care."

We pass several private rooms with shuttered windows. I try to shut out the incessant beeping of machinery and the barrenness of the halls. Marco's silence says more than words could have.

You know, he isn't...all there yet," Marco says. Our pace has slowed considerably. He is stalling, so we must be close. Half of me wants to sprint the rest of the distance and the other half never wants to arrive.

"All there?" I frown.

"He's...confused." Marco taps his head and the knot of dread inside my stomach writhes.

"About what?"

"A lot of things."

Finally we come to a halt. The light brown door into Arturo's hospital room is closed, and the blinds are shuttered. Somehow it feels as though something much greater exists between us than the thin walls of the hospital ward.

"Are you coming in?" I ask. In the dim lighting of the hallway, I allow myself to steal a glance at Marco. He is broad - much broader than my brother - yet he seems crushed. Like the weight of the world is baring down on his thickset shoulders. It is no more weight than Arturo has to endure, yet for Marco things are different. He is not quite as cold as my brother. Not as ruthless. He is good, at his core. Something I am not so sure I can say about Arturo.

"I don't think he wants to see me just yet," he shrugs. "I mean, I'm sure he doesn't want to see me. He told me. Actually, he didn't use words. He used a vase of flowers thrown in the general direction of my head."

"He sounds cheerful," I comment lightly.

I reach for the door handle but Marco's fingers circle my wrist. I turn to him with eyes as hard as granite but the second I see his expression I feel my whole body softening.

"He isn't the same as he used to be, Sofia," Marco whispers. "Be careful."

"I always am," I tell him.

But I am not.

I push open the door and take a deep breath, preparing for the worst. I know this room so well that I could navigate it with my eyes closed, yet this time when I walk in it feels different.

Arturo is propped up against a mound of pillows. He has been in the same position for months. The only difference is that his eyes are open. When he sees me, his heart rate monitor spikes.

"Ciao," I greet timidly. A muscle in his face twitches. His right hand clenches into a loose fist, then jerks open. I remember what the doctors have been saying for months, that when he comes round he might not be fully functioning. Has he spoken yet? Can he move?

I take a seat beside the bed. My body knows the chair well; I have spent many nights sleeping on it. I am the only relation who has visited. Madre and Padre are in Italy; Madre because she has no choice, and Padre because business comes before everything. I wonder if Arturo remembers. I wonder if he knows who has come and gone from this room - if, after all the nights I spent sleeping in this chair, he remembers any of them. Did I make a difference?

"How are you feeling?" I ask. I cannot feel relieved until I know that Arturo is truly back; that he is more than just a pair of watching eyes. "I'm glad you're awake," I tell him.

I reach out a hand to place in his open palm, but his whole arm spasms away from my touch. He cannot remove his hand from mine, but he jerks hard enough that I quickly retract my arm. My heart is pounding in my ears.

A low, raspy mutter escapes from Arturo's parched lips. It sounds as though his lungs have grown rust on them, making each sound wheezy and laboured. I lean closer.

"Where...is...she?"

"Madre?" I frown. His body twitches.

"WHERE...IS...SHE..."

Behind me I can hear that all of the machines monitoring Arturo are going crazy. I reach over and try to soothe him but his body keeps jerking.

"Who?" I ask, desperate to help him.

"F...F..." he struggles to form any sound. It's as though he doesn't quite have control of his muscles; I can see the effort written on his forehead. "F...Flo..."

Suddenly everything clicks and I rush to calm him down. "I know you're angry, but you need to relax..."

He shakes his head violently. "I...need...her..."

"What?!" Suddenly I feel bile rising in my throat. After everything she did to him...after all that she has caused! A burning hatred sets my chest on fire that I only just manage to control.

"Lie down," I command more firmly, but this only makes him more insistent.

With fumbling limbs he begins tugging at the wires attached to his body. He rips off the heart rate monitor and snatches the IV drip out of his wrist, causing blood to swell from the skin there.

"Arturo," I plead, trying to hold him still, "Arturo, stop!"

He continues to thrash against me. I can see the frustration written across his crinkled forehead and the pain on his face. He cannot move properly, yet he doesn't stop trying, causing monitors to clatter all over the floor.

"Nurse!" I yell, slamming my hand down onto the call button.