The Woman in the Trunk

But it did mean something.

And, I guess, I wasn't running away after all.

I had one more wrong to right.

And then I would be done with this fucking family once and for all.Chapter ThirteenLorenzoApparently, one does interesting things when they are coming out of the drugs used for a medically-induced coma.

Like demand someone turn the lights on, when the problem was your eyes were still shut.

Like ask for someone to stop spinning the room when the room was, of course, stationary.

Like offer to ruthlessly murder the shitty husband of the nurse who had been telling the other nurse that he'd been cheating on her for six months.

I remembered exactly none of this, but was told all of it by a smiling Emilio as he stood at my bedside, looking worn out, eyes baggy, skin pale, clothes wrinkled.

"How long have I been out?" I demanded.

"Just over a week," he told me, eyes pained. "It was touch and go. They didn't give you a great odds. Thank fuck you're a stubborn bastard," he said, giving me a weak smirk.

"Where is she?" I demanded.

I didn't know much when I was out.

Of the actual world.

A lot of people wake up from their comas saying they heard every sentence uttered to them, felt every brush of a hand, tried so hard to get back to the surface of their consciousness.

That was not me.

I guess maybe because of all the drugs.

I knew nothing of the world around me.

Not the constant beeps of the machines I was hooked up to. Not the squeaking of the nurses' shoes. Not Emilio's demands I wake the fuck up already and fix this mess.

All I knew was blissful unconsciousness. And dreams of Giana.

The soft brush of her hand. Those gray eyes. Her voice calling out my name.

I spent seven days in my head alone with Gigi.

But I was in the real world now.

And I needed to know where she was, if she was okay, when I could see her.

"We don't know," Emilio admitted, wincing, bracing for the impact of my rage.

"What the fuck do you mean you don't know where she is?" I roared, folding up in the bed, the machine at my side starting to scream.

There was hardly a blink before I could hear those squeaky shoes rushing in, a pretty blonde nurse coming in at my side, looking at the machine, pressing a hand to my chest.

"You need to stay calm," she told me, voice firm.

"I need to sign myself out," I shot back, ripping the monitor off my finger, the tube out of my hand.

"You really need to see the doctor. He is on his way in. Mr. Costa, you were shot in the head. You had surgery. And you were in a coma. You need to take it slow."

"I know what happened. And I know I need to get the hell out of here," I told her, regretting my tone when she shrank back.

Let's face it, they knew average people didn't get shot in the head.

They likely heard all about who I was.

"He's not going anywhere until he gets looked over," Emilio assured the nurse. "But maybe tell the good doc he better get in here within the next five minutes, okay?" he asked, tone heavy with meaning. Or else.

The nurse rushed off, leaving us alone in the stark white room, the sun streaming in through the large windows.

"I need you to talk," I told him, pushing the button to fold my bed up. I hated to admit it, but I was a little light-headed, a little off. "Where is Giana?"

"Look," Emilio said, face grim. "A lot of shit has gone down since you passed out. And I need you to cooperate with these doctors. Because I need to get your ass out of this bed, out of this hospital, in a suit, and in front of the families. As soon as possible."

Emilio was rarely serious, never grave.

But he was both of those things right that moment.

I had no idea what had happened, but I knew I had to trust him, that I had to make sure I was able to function, then get the hell out of there, so he could fill me in.

"Okay," I agreed, nodding.

"He's on his way in," the nurse called, barely pausing in the doorway before rushing off.

"I know. We'll send a basket in apology," Emilio said, shaking his head. "Always such a charmer, Lorenzo," he added, reaching for his phone, blowing off a series of texts.

I wanted to press him, but then the doctor was there, spouting off a bunch of shit about my surgery, about how lucky I was, about possible complications, about therapy should I need it, about follow-up visits with a neurologist as well as my primary care doctor.

I yes'd him to death, then asked for my papers as Emilio ducked downstairs, coming back with a suit in a dry-cleaning bag.