Wake Up
1158 Words
I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and someone calling my name.
"Miss Moretti. Lina. Can you hear me?"
A nurse. Young. She had her hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. The hospital lights were blinding.
"Vito," I croaked. My throat felt like I’d been screaming. "Where’s Vito?"
She didn’t answer right away. She just helped me sit up on the stretcher. The room tilted.
The last thing I remembered was so clear. The gunshot. Echoing off the containers. Then his body slamming into mine. Then blood. So much blood.
"No." I tried to stand. My legs were jelly. "No, I need to see him. Where is he?"
"Ma’am, you hit your head when you collapsed. You need to—"
"WHERE IS HE?!"
The doors at the end of the hall burst open.
Marco.
He was running. His white shirt had red on it. Not his.
The sight of him broke me.
I dropped to my knees on the cold tile. "No."
Marco was there in 2 seconds. On his knees with me. "Hey. Hey, look at me. He’s alive, Lina. He’s alive. He’s in surgery right now."
I sucked in air like I’d been drowning. "Surgery? Oh God. How bad is it?"
"Bad." Marco’s voice was steady but his eyes weren’t. "But he made it here. We got him here in 8 minutes. Best trauma surgeons in Lagos are in there with him. He was talking in the ambulance, Lina. He kept asking ‘Is she okay? Is Lina okay?’ until they put him under."
I started crying. Hard.
Marco pulled me into his chest and let me. Right there in the middle of the ER.
After a while I pulled back. "Did we get Rocco?"
"Dead." Marco said it quietly. Final. "Marco shot him. Twice. He’s not coming after you again."
That should’ve felt like relief. It didn’t. It just felt hollow.
---
7 hours.
7 hours I sat in that plastic chair outside the OR.
I hadn’t washed my hands. I couldn’t. His blood was under my nails. On my sleeves. If I washed it off, it felt like I was washing him away.
Nurses kept offering me water. Blankets. I said no to all of it.
At hour 7 the big double doors finally opened.
A surgeon walked out. He looked exhausted. Mask hanging around his neck.
I shot to my feet. "How is he?"
The doctor looked between me and Marco. "Are you family?"
"Yes." I said it immediately.
"He lost a lot of blood. Again." The doctor sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But we removed the bullet. It missed his heart by 2 centimeters. He’s stable now. We’ve moved him to ICU."
The breath I’d been holding came out in a rush.
"Can I see him? Please?"
"Five minutes." The doctor nodded. "He’s sedated, but stable. Nurse will take you back."
The ICU was freezing. All beeps and machines and quiet voices.
And there he was.
Vito.
Lying in the bed. Tubes in his arms. Bandages wrapped around his chest. Oxygen. Monitors everywhere.
He looked so pale. So still.
But his chest rose. Fell.
He was breathing.
I pulled a chair as close as I could and took his hand. Careful of the IV. His skin was cold.
"Hey, Marino," I whispered. My voice cracked. "You really have to stop scaring me like this."
No answer. Just the steady beep of the heart monitor.
I laid my head down on the bed next to his hand and closed my eyes.
"I’m sorry," I whispered to him. To God. To anyone. "It’s my fault. I lied to you. I got the call and I went. If I had just told you—"
The door opened softly. Marco.
"You should go home, Lina," he said gently. "Take a shower. Eat something."
"I’m not leaving him."
"You haven’t slept in 2 days."
"I don’t care."
Marco sighed and sat in the chair on the other side of the bed. "Council made it official an hour ago. Ruled self-defense. The war is over."
"Good."
"He didn’t think, you know." Marco said quietly. "Saw the gun come up. And he just... moved. Didn’t even look at me. Just stepped in front of you."
I nodded. Tears dropped onto his hand.
"I know."
I must’ve fallen asleep like that. Because the next thing I knew, his fingers were squeezing mine.
---
I woke up with a start.
Vito’s eyes were open.
Half open. Tired. Dark. But looking right at me.
"Hey," he whispered. His voice was rough.
"Vito." I was already crying. "You’re awake."
"Hi, Moretti." That crooked little smile.
"Don’t call me that." I laughed and sobbed at the same time.
"Okay." His thumb moved, brushing over my knuckles. "Lina."
"Don’t talk." I poured water and held the straw to his lips. "The nurse said you need to rest."
"Come here."
I leaned in carefully. Put my forehead against his.
"You’re an i***t," I whispered. "The biggest, bravest, stupidest idiot."
"I know." He tried to laugh and immediately regretted it. Winced.
"Don’t laugh." I grabbed his hand with both of mine. "You took a bullet for me. Again, Vito."
"Would do it again." His eyes were getting heavy. "Every single time. To keep you safe."
"Don’t." My voice broke. "Please don’t ever do that again."
"Can’t promise that." His hand came up. Shaking. Touched my cheek. "You’re mine, Lina. I protect what’s mine."
I kissed his palm. "Then stay. Stay so you can keep doing it."
"Always."
His eyes drifted closed. But the monitors stayed steady.
The nurse came in. "Alright, time’s up. He needs to rest."
I nodded and stood, but I kissed his knuckles first.
Marco was waiting outside. "Well?"
"He’s awake." I smiled through tears. "He’s okay."
Marco leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "Thank God."
For the next 3 days I lived in that hospital room.
Chair at night. Terrible coffee in the morning. Reading to him when he was awake.
He recovered fast. Because he’s Vito. And because he’s too stubborn to die.
On day 4 the doctor signed the discharge papers. "Home care. No lifting. No stress."
Vito, from the bed: "Stress is my middle name, Doc."
We went back to the safe house that afternoon.
It felt different. Quieter. Lighter.
No guards at every door. No tension in the air.
The war was over.
That night I crawled into bed next to him. Careful of his stitches.
He was asleep but he stirred and pulled me against him.
"Lina?" sleepy.
"Yeah?"
"War’s over."
"I know."
"No more running."
"No more running."
"Good." He kissed my forehead. "Because I’m getting too old to chase you."
I laughed and cried. "I wasn’t running from you."
"I know." His arm tightened around me. "Sleep, amore."
And for the first time in 18 years, I did.
No fear.
No gun under the pillow.
Just safe.
In his arms.
- Writer
