Page 28 of The Mad Don
Ricci’s leg gives out beneath him, and he drops to the floor, and the knife clatters across the tile. He screams, and Valentina screams louder.
Yana adjusts her grip on my waist and pulls me tight against her side. I do not know if my feet are moving. I feel her body taking my weight. I feel her warmth against my ribs, and the crowd parts again. We are out of the bathroom, into the corridor, and the room behind us is full of screaming.
* * *
We are in my bedroom, and the doctor has the needle in my arm. I cannot move, but I can speak now. I sit propped against the pillows.
“It’s a muscle relaxant,” he says. “It’s a heavy dose but nothing permanent. It will wear off within the next few hours. The compound is designed for veterinary use, Don Mondi. It paralyzes the major muscle groups but leaves the heart and lungs functioning. The pounding sensation in your chest is normal.”
He pauses and looks at the syringe.
“You may have some residual stiffness for a day or two. Massage will help. Warm compresses on the shoulders and the back of the neck. Do not push yourself to walk before you are ready.”
He packs his bag, and Fabiano is standing by the door with his leg in a brace. He came as soon as he was called. He is balanced on one crutch.
Yana is standing on the other side of the bed. She has not moved since we got here. Her dress is still torn at the side. There is blood on the back of her hand. I do not know if it is mine or someone else’s.
The doctor leaves, and the door closes behind him. Fabiano steps forward and lowers himself onto his good knee with some difficulty, his broken leg stretched awkwardly to the side. His head bows.
“Don Mondi. I apologize. This is my fault.”
“Oh, no,” I say. The words come out a little slurred. The drug is still moving through me. “No, no. Thank you, Fabiano. You picked the perfect night to break your leg. You had me almost killed in a bathroom. I should be thanking you.”
Fabiano’s face tightens.
“Punish me, Don. Whatever you decide.”
“I could break the second leg.”
He does not look up.
“I will pass,” I say. “You have two weeks to heal. After that, I want you back. Leave.”
He gets up slowly, and the crutch scrapes against the floor. He turns toward the door, and on his way out, his eyes meet Yana’s. She holds his gaze for a moment. He looks away first and walks out.
Yana turns to leave.
“Stop.”
She stops.
“You have to take care of me.”
She looks at me, but I cannot read her face. She does not argue. She walks back to the chair beside the bed and sits down. Her hands fold in her lap.
I close my eyes. The drug is fighting me on the inside, even though the doctor said it was nothing permanent. I let myself sink into the pillow, and I think about what just happened. I think about the bathroom; I think about Yana coming through the door with her gun out.
I did not expect that.
I did not expect any of it. She has shown me nothing but hate and disdain for a full week. She has not spoken to me in seven days. She avoided me as if my presence in a room could burn her. I open my eyes, and I look at her.
She is leaning against the wall beside the chair with her head tipped back. Her eyes are closed. The light from the lamp hits the line of her jaw and the curve of her cheek and the soft place where her throat meets her collarbone. The dress has slipped a little at the shoulder.
I mumble it without meaning to.
“Beautiful.”
She does not stir. I do not know if she heard me. I close my eyes again, and I let the drug take me down.
