Page 71 of Cartel Devil

Muh coosh-la.

I’ll have to ask Tre what that means later. Must be Irish.

“Joaco.”

Tre reaches out her hand with the IV attached while her other arm continues to fist the back of her mother’s coat.

“Joaquin.” Kathleen’s warning me away as strongly as Tre’s begging me to approach.

“No, Mom. I need him.”

“Chica—”

“Mo chuisle⁠—”

“Mom, I want my boyfriend. I may be the pulse of your heart, but he has mine.”

Kathleen leans back, perched on the edge of the bed. She stares at her daughter as I warily approach.

“Considering the monitors you’re attached to, I suppose I should be saying the pulses of my heart, shouldn’t I?”

She emphasizes the second “s” in the word. It fills the space that now feels cramped when it hadn’t with six of us hovering over Tre.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Did you do this, Joaquin?”

“Mom, we did it together.”

I want to die.

Seriously. I want to die.

I’ve wished for death before.

Grief and survivor’s guilt have been constant companions since I was a tween.

Pain from nearly fatal wounds is no stranger to me.

This? This is far worse.

Kathleen’s as brutal as any O’Rourke woman. She’ll show me no mercy. I’d rather face Frank Vizzini, Tre’s father, in a dark alley than Kathleen in a hospital where people would be foolish enough to revive me.

“I know how babies are made, Trish.”

My girlfriend’s pallid face flushes nearly fuchsia. “I just meant…”

We all know what she meant.

I’m as mortified as she is. This isn’t a conversation I pictured having with Kathleen three months ago. I hadn’t pictured having any conversation with her ever. Once I did picture it, it wasn’t happening in an emergency room bay.

“Is Dad on his way?”

“Yeah. So is everyone else.”

“Everyone? The guys?”

“No. They’re busy. Your aunts and uncles.”