Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Why don’t we eat dinner together?” Francisco asks.
“I think I should go back and check on Brandon,” I say.
“Okay,” he responds, letting me go without a fight.
I tuck myself back into the chair beside Brandon’s bed, checking his saline bag. It looks like the doctor has switched it out, but I can’t find the physician anywhere. Assuming he’s taking a much needed break, I simply wait.
About an hour later, the doctor returns to check on Brandon. Frankie comes back with some more food, and we sit and talk.
“How is college?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t considered his studies in a long time.
“Good,” he says.
“Were you able to find another tutor?” I question.
“No,” he says. “But it’s okay.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I wonder.
“Actually,” he replies, giving me a sheepish smile. “I could use some help studying for a test if you have a moment.”
“I have nothing but time,” I say. “But can you bring your study materials in here?”
“Of course,” he agrees, going to his suite to fetch some notes.
We spend about an hour going over his course material. I’m pleased to see that he knows most of it. “I think you’ll be well prepared for your test,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says.
“I’m okay,” I offer after the silence stretches out to an uncomfortable length.
“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically.
“I’m sure,” I reply.
“You don’t need anything?” he presses.
“No,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”
“Alright,” he says, standing up. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”
I stay upright until around midnight when I doze off. I’m only partially aware that Francisco has entered the room. He picks me up in spite of my protests and carries me into my bedroom. Setting me down on the bed, he pulls the covers up to my chin.
I don’t remember much after that. I’m sure if I was actually awake, I would have asked him to stay. But the next thing I’m aware of is the morning sun coming in through my window and the sound of birds chirping outside. I get up and check on Brandon before brushing my teeth. His condition hasn’t improved.
It takes three whole days before he finally opens his eyes. Thankfully, I’m there to see it. I set the magazine down on the bedside table, the same one I’ve read over and over since my vigil began.
“Brandon?” I whisper.
“Marlena?” he croaks, his voice rusty from disuse. “Is that you?”
“Brandon!” I shout, getting to my feet and running around to his side of the bed. “Oh, thank God!”
From the other room, the doctor comes rushing toward us. He pushes me aside and does a few quick checks of Brandon’s vitals, taking his temperature and his pulse oxygen rate. I crane my neck eagerly, impatient even though I know the doctor’s care takes precedence.
Finally, the doctor looks up. “He’s doing well,” he reports. “I’m going to tell Mr. Corello.”
Brandon blinks, watching the doctor disappear out the door before turning to me for an explanation.
“He’s a doctor,” I say, because to my mind it isn’t obvious from the way the doctor is dressed.
“I can tell,” Brandon quips. It’s nice to hear him being sarcastic, despite the fact that such barbs would usually get under my skin.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, taking his hand in mine.
“Like I was just run over by a truck,” he complains.
“I’m so sorry, Brandon,” I murmur, sitting down on the bed beside him. “This is all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” he asks.
He glances around the bedroom looking for something. I deduce that he’s thirsty, so I fetch him a glass of water. He drinks slowly, taking in all the information from our surroundings as he does. His eyes settle on the IV of fluids draining into his arm. Then he looks out the window, where we can see nothing but blue sky through the curtains.
“Where are we?” he finally asks, the question I’ve been dreading or at least one of them.
I draw a deep breath, knowing that this is going to be hard. I have to tell him everything, even knowing that he’ll be upset. He has to know about our father, about Francisco and me, and about all the people who want to hurt us. It’s not going to be easy, so I take my time. Brandon listens patiently as I fill in the gaps between what he experienced as a kid and what I’ve come to learn.
“Our dad was a hitman,” I say.
“What?” Brandon scoffs.
“He killed a high-ranking member of the Andretti family,” I continue, my even tone hopefully convincing him I’m telling the truth. “Don Corello is the head of a rival family, and he’s agreed to give us his protection. He also introduced me to our father’s family in Italy.”
“You’ve been to Italy?” Brandon asks, clearly grappling with the immensity of our shared problem.