Page 229 of Ricardo

I inhale through my nose.

The nurse says, “He was taken back quickly. He had a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He lost a significant amount of blood, but he is alive and fighting.”

Alive.

Word seems too small right now. I need more than that.

“Thank you,” Lorenzo says, because I cannot.

The nurse leaves.

Julia sways slightly.

My grip tightens. “Sit.”

“I’m okay.”

“Sit.”

For once, she does not argue.

I guide her to the nearest chair, but she resists the last second, looking down at the blood on her dress.

“I’ll stain it.”

“Fuck it. Sit.”

She sits.

The blood has already dried in places, dark against the green silk. There is a smear along her forearm, another near her collarbone. I do not know whether it happened when she tried to put pressure on Dante’s wound or when she was pulled away by paramedics or—

My mind keeps making pictures I do not want to see.

Dante in her apartment.

Dante standing between her and bullets.

Dante bleeding on the floor while she tries desperately to keep him alive with her hands.

My son, who would not speak to me without a blade in his voice the last few weeks, who still did exactly what I trusted him to do.

My son.

I crouch in front of Julia.

Her hands are shaking in her lap.

I take them carefully.

The blood is dry and tacky against her skin.

She looks at our joined hands and starts to cry again, silently this time.

“I couldn’t stop it,” she whispers. “I tried. I did what they told me to do. I kept pressure on it, but it kept coming through my fingers.”

“You kept him alive long enough to get here.”

“What if it wasn't enough?” She shakes her head. “Ricardo—”