Page 29 of The Mad Don
Hours pass.
I know they pass because when I wake, the light at the window is different. The lamp is still on, and the pain in my chest from the pounding heart is gone. My fingers move when I tell them to.
I sit up slowly.
Yana is asleep in the chair. Her head is tipped to one side against the wall. Her hand has fallen open in her lap. One of her shoes has come off and is lying on its side on the floor.
I look at her for a moment.
Then I push the blanket back and swing my legs off the bed. My knees hold when I stand. The room sways, but it settles. I can walk.
I go to Lucia’s room. The corridor is quiet, and the house has been quiet since we got back. I open her door, step in, and close it softly behind me.
She is sleeping. She is on her side this time, which is good because she usually sleeps on her back, and that is harder on herleg. Her hair is across her face. I sit on the edge of the bed and brush it back behind her ear.
“I got into some trouble today, Angel.”
She does not stir.
“I can’t spend today with you. I am sorry. I know I promised. I will spend tomorrow with you — the whole day. I will sit in this room, and you can talk to me about anything you want. Or we can watch your shows. You can pick.”
I adjust the blanket and pull it higher over her shoulder.
“Someone saved me today,” I say quietly. “Just like you used to.”
I sit with that for a moment.
Lucia and Yana. Those are the two people in my life who have put themselves between me and harm. My sister was six years old, her arms spread over me on the floor of an apartment in Via Carmelo, and my collateral was walking through a door with a gun.
Neither of them stood to gain anything by doing it.
I have been alive for thirty-five years, and the list is two names long. I lean down and kiss Lucia’s forehead. Her skin is warm. Istand and walk to the door, and I look back at her before I close it.
When I return to my room, the door is open, and Yana is standing in the doorway, her hand on the frame. She is awake. She has put her shoe back on. She was on her way out.
She sees me and stops.
“You’re better.”
I do not answer. I walk toward her, and I look at her. The dress is still torn, the curve of her breasts is still pressing against the fabric, and the spot on her mouth where I bit her in the car is fading to a soft pink.
I take her by the arm and pull her back into the room.
“What is wrong with you?”
I push the door closed behind her, and I press her back against the wall. My hand stays at the side of her ribs. Her hands come up against my chest, not pushing yet. She lets out a breath through her teeth.
“I see you’re better,” she repeats.
“Not entirely. The doctor said I need a massage. My joints are sore.”
“Find someone else.”
“I want you.”
She turns her face away. I let my eyes drop to her chest.
“You saved me tonight.”
