Feeling the wet stain on the sleeve of his pajamas growing by the second, Carlo nodded toward the other boy’s throat with a zombie-like stare. “Blood. Gushing like that fountain in Grant Park.”
Suddenly Enzo yanked Carlo into his arms, despite his cries of pain. Carlo looked up to see his uncle take one last look at Fanocelli and the stray gun on the floor before running out of the house, jostling Carlo’s wound with every step.
Enzo huffed from the effort of carrying him across the lawn, but they finally reached the car.
“Stay with me, Carlo,” he ordered.
Carlo felt his eyelids droop, and he moaned as Enzo buckled him into the front seat.
Enzo floored the accelerator, headed to an unknown destination.
Despite his wooziness, Carlo was thrilled to be in the car, speeding down the deserted road—on an adventure with his uncle. “Uncle Enzo, tell Lo about this, ‘kay? Tell him I helped you and Dad.” Carlo’s voice faded, but he added, “He’ll be so jealous.”
“Stay with me!” Enzo shouted. Carlo felt his uncle’s hand trying to prop him up in the seat, but all he wanted to do was sleep.
The tires screeched to a halt and Carlo squinted at the bright lights. Abruptly he found himself cradled in the arms of his uncle, who was sprinting toward some sliding glass doors.
“Help us!” Enzo shouted, bursting through the entrance.
A startled nurse instructed, “In here!” and guided them into a curtained room where Enzo laid Carlo on a gurney. “What happened?” she demanded.
“He’s been shot.”
The nurse began cutting off Carlo’s pajama top, now sopping wet with blood. “How old is he?”
Enzo’s voice sounded weird, sort of strangled. “Ten.”
Two doctors bustled into the room and went to work.
Amidst the chaos of people darting around his bed, barking orders at each other, Carlo’s head lolled to the side. The last thing he noticed before he lost consciousness was his uncle ducking behind the curtain and stealing away. Uncle Enzo had left him.
Weeks later, when Carlo asked where Uncle Enzo had gone, his father filled in the rest of the story:
Once out of the building, Enzo had broken into a run. He was almost to his car when a commanding voice ordered, “Freeze!” Enzo looked to find a uniformed police officer aiming his weapon straight at him. The officer’s partner jogged up to join him, and Enzo had no choice but to halt, glaring at the two cops.
“Vicenzo Barberi, hands up!” the first officer shouted. The Mafia don did as he was told, noticing the gun weighing down one of his jacket pockets. The murder weapon. He was screwed.
The officers were on him in a second, forcing him to the ground, finding the weapon, and roughly cuffing his hands behind his back. One officer radioed headquarters, informing them of the arrest. They’d suspected Enzo might hit the hospital after a 911 call.
Fanocelli had called the police. The informant had fulfilled his duty.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Logan’s deep voice broke through the memories.
“What?”
Logan squinted at his cousin, whose black eyes were even wilder than usual. Carefully he took a subtle step back.
A car engine rumbled in the distance, and Carlo demanded, “Stop looking at me like that!”
The noise increased, and Logan caught a glimpse of a car approaching. He inhaled sharply. Was that a cop? Quickly he jogged back toward his car.
“Ah, life on the lam for a wanted man.” Carlo delighted in Logan’s fear of capture.
As Logan hustled, Carlo called after him, “Don’t be a stranger, cugino!”
As he started the car, Logan exhaled slowly, grateful for an excuse to get the hell away from his cousin. Carlo was bad news. He had to keep Grant away from him. He had to find Grant.
24. Nemo and Nema
You got a new clownfish,” Sophie observed.
“Yes, I did.” Hunter smiled as they began their fourth therapy session.
“Nemo Junior?” she suggested.
“More like Nema, I think. She’s a female, thank goodness, just like the shop promised. They warned me that if I got two males in there they might behave aggressively, trying to establish a hierarchy.”
Sophie nodded. Percula clownfish didn’t sound all that different from humans. “Their markings are so vivid, so vibrant,” she said. “You’d think their predators would find them too easily.”
“Ah, but clownfish know how to hide in an anemone,” Hunter said. “Though no one has figured out how they avoid getting stung.”
The two clownfish swam closely together, darting in and out of the plants in the aquarium. Although they’d met only recently, Nemo and Nema seemed quite happy together.
Hunter studied his client before clearing his throat. “Speaking of hiding out, managing to avoid getting stung—have you contacted your father yet?”
Her gaze left the serene water and lowered to the floor. “No.”
“Is he even aware that you’re out of prison?”
“I don’t know.”
After a moment she asked, “Why do you think I should call my father?”
“I’m not sure you should,” he responded, surprising her. “That’s a decision for you to make, and only you understand the consequences of doing so. I don’t really know your father or the intricacies of your relationship with him—you haven’t told me much. But I can imagine how lonely it would feel to be on your own with no family support after all you’ve been through—after going to prison and losing your mother.”
Sophie sighed, not wanting to acknowledge her loneliness. “But I have Grant and Kirsten.”
“I know they’re important to you. I also know our parents have quite a hold over us, whether we want them to or not. And I don’t think you can avoid your father forever.”
“It’s not like he’s reaching out to me,” she said bitterly.
“But he has no way of contacting you.”
“He should have thought of that when he decided not to visit me once in prison.” She felt a deep hurt pressing down on her chest. She gave him a hard stare. “Do you get along with your parents?”
“Now I do,” Hunter said. “But there was a time when my dad didn’t talk to me for almost a year.” He leveled his gaze. “After I came out.”
Sophie winced. “I’m sorry. Here I am whining about my father when people around me are dealing with real problems, like homophobia or child abuse.”
“Child abuse?”
The image of Grant lying on his stomach, his arms tucked under his chest and tears tumbling from his tightly shut eyelids, filled her mind. The angry scar. She shuddered.
“Grant,” she managed to get out, her throat tight with imminent tears. “I’m pretty sure his father physically abused him.”
Hunter nodded, feeling a twinge in his heart as he watched her eyes pool with tears. She clearly cared deeply for Grant, and he tried to push aside his concerns about her rapidly developing intimacy with another convict.
“Has Grant ever been physically abusive to you?” he asked.
Sophie drew in a shocked breath. “No! He would never hurt me.”