Aunt Gloria and Uncle Emilio stand at the entrance, glancing around the room. They both wear emotionless masks. When Gloria's eyes meet mine, her stone face softens and contorts in ways that looks painful and tears rush out. I run to her, unable to stand the distance, and throw my arms around her midsection. We cry together there, at the entrance of the emergency room. It all feels so surreal. We shouldn't have to pick up the pieces of our lives every time something goes wrong. We shouldn't have to live this way.
Uncle Emilio reaches over and lightly pats my back before walking to the nurse's station. I break away from Gloria, who’s calmed her tears much faster than I have mine. Emilio speaks with one of the nurses for a minute before ushering us toward him. To my surprise, a nurse escorts the three of us through the intake area and down a long, sterile hallway past several rooms.
"Upon arrival, Anthony was unresponsive and had lost a lot of blood. He's stabilized now, but before he arrived, he had stopped breathing and we're not yet sure what effect, if any, the loss of oxygen has had on his brain. We have him sedated so his body can heal without interruption. He may be groggy and appear confused. Try not to push him to interact just yet." The nurse, whose name I don't get, walks away and leaves us in front of an open door. Inside are a standard-issue hospital bed and a few machines with tubes going all over the place. I look at the patient file—handwritten on the information sheet is ANTHONY VESCOVI.
Emilio enters first, followed by Gloria, and then myself. I keep to the corner, out of their way, and the pair of them tentatively approach and reached their hands out toward their son. Sure, he’s full grown, over six feet tall and built like a boxer, but to his parents, he’ll always be their little boy. And for me, no matter how big and mean and bossy he's gotten over the years, I still see Tony as the boy who would sit beside me during Sunday school and fill in his coloring book so neatly in the lines. I never could keep such great control of my crayon, the colors shooting out all over the place.
I choke back a sob at the sight before me. The man lying in this hospital bed doesn’t look like my Tony. My Tony always has a tan, but this man's face is so ashen it’s frightening. His fingers twitch at his side as he slowly moves his head from side to side to look at his parents. Gloria bends down and places a gentle, lingering kiss to Tony's forehead as he has done to her many times over the years. As a man, especially a Made Man who’s sworn his life to the organization, he’s to protect the women in his life. But this is his mother and, as mothers do, she’ll always stand in for him in the face of danger, whether he likes it or not.
At that thought I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I miss my own mother so much. And though she wasn't like Gloria in her bravery and commitment to her family, she was my mother. Esmeralda Mancuso had her own way of going about things. When Tony started to earn his bones, Gloria threw a fit. She wasn't just upset, she was enraged. She didn't want her boy to be a murderer. My own mother would have just distracted Michael as best she could, but she never, not ever, got in the way of my father's business.
"Emilio Vescovi," a hard voice says from the doorway, breaking me from my thoughts. A short, round man in a suit holds up a badge identifying him as F.B.I. Uncle Emilio turns around, keeping his annoyance at bay as best he can, and nods his head at the door.
"Agent Wilks, why don't we take this into the hallway? These ladies have had a tough enough night," Emilio instructs on their way through the door. Agent Wilks casts a suspicious glance over his shoulder as he steps out of the room.
Slowly, I approach Tony's bed and brush his hair back from his face. It’s short, but stuck to his damp skin.
"Dav," he says in a gritty, pained voice. His eyes bore into mine. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something that’s gone over my head. What is he trying to say? I ask him just that, trying to understand, but his voice gains strength in his anger. He repeats "Dav" again and again. Nothing makes sense. Gloria looks at me with worry.
"Maybe I should get the nurse," she says and reaches for the button. Tony's arm shoots out and stops her. He shakes his head from side to side, telling her not to get the nurse in broken breaths. Gloria pulls her arm back and wrings her hands with worry.
"Come here," Tony says in barely a whisper. He’s sweating now from the exertion of attempting to interact. I lean in close to his mouth so that I can hear him. Then, I think, maybe his words will make sense. With his lips at my ear, Tony says the one thing I hadn't expected: "You stupid little girl. Sei morto per me"
I pull away, shocked and confused. I take a step back and shake my head again and again. Davis. Tony must have heard me tell Officer Davis where Michael was going. But why would that make Tony so angry? Officer Davis is on our side. I'd overheard his conversations with my father numerous times. Officer Adam Davis was on the take.
Take care of this, okay? And do not talk to anybody. Not anybody, you hear me?