Page 245 of Ricardo

My boy in an operating room with a bullet wound in his abdomen and too much blood left on Julia’s hands. My son, who stood between her and men with guns because that is who he is. Because even hurt, even angry, even cut open by what Julia and I did, he still chose her life before his own.

He may die because of it.

The thought moves through me like a blade dragged slowly across my heart.

I hold Julia tighter, but over her bowed head, my eyes open and lock onto the dress folded over the chair.

The dress soaked in my son's blood. The dress that Julia pressed against his wound to try to keep him alive.

Harrison Winthrop did this.

He put bruises on the woman I love, isolated her, made her doubt herself. Then he sent men into her home and put my son in the hospital.

My hand moves slowly over Julia’s hair because she needs tenderness from me. She needs warmth.

But inside me, something colder than rage grows.

Harrison will pay for Julia’s tears.

He will pay for every white rose he ever sent over the damage he caused.

He will pay for every night she stayed because he terrified her into it.

And he will pay for every drop of blood my son has lost.

I press my mouth to Julia’s hair.

I will pull it out of him myself.

Chapter Thirty Three

Julia

The waiting room feels like some sort of anomaly of time.

Hours pass. People move through. Nurses come and go. A man in scrubs crosses the hallway with a clipboard in his hand. A woman cries quietly into her phone near the far wall. Somewhere beyond the double doors, machines breathe and beep and measure life in numbers none of us can see.

But somehow, everything stays the same.

Same chairs.

Same walls.

Same awful light.

Same closed doors between us and Dante.

I sit beside Ricardo with my hands folded in my lap because I do not know what else to do with them. They are clean now.

They do not feel clean.

Ricardo sits close enough that his leg touches mine. He has not moved away from me since we came back from the private room, except when Mario pulled him aside for a few low words near the hall. Even then, he kept me in his line of sight.

Now his hand rests over mine.

Heavy and warm.

Too still.