“When do you think she might come out of the coma?” Mickie asked, twisting her hands as she watched the doctor examine Teresa.

“I’m not certain she will.  Her injuries are severe, and she may need another surgery to stop the bleeding in her brain.”  The doctor stood and turned to look at her.  “This is a wait, see…and pray kind of thing.”

Santo Padre, Madre Benedetta, she doesn’t deserve to live, but please don’t let her die.

Dante stepped up beside her to put his arm around her shoulders and she was thankful, because her knees were weak.  Getting here to only to find out she wouldn’t be getting the answers she needed was heartbreaking. 

But at least Teresa wasn’t dead, although that’s what she looked like laying in that bed.  Her usually olive complexion blended into the sheet, as did the stark white bandages covering the deep cuts on her body, which were cleaned and stitched up in surgery when she arrived. 

The only things standing in contrast were the deep purple and green bruises that covered her body, the cigarette burns and her dirty, gray-streaked black hair.  The large Z branded into her thigh identified who’d done this to her.

When you get into bed with snakes, expect to be bitten. 

Nonna’s favorite admonition to the females in their family.  She knew Teresa had heard it, but she certainly hadn’t heeded the warning. And now she was paying the price for it.  According to Dante, the place they rescued her from was akin to hell. A filthy, rat-infested cell in the gang stronghold where they’d left the body of her boyfriend to keep her company.  Teresa could join him in hell for all she cared, but first she needed her to wake up just for a little while

Mickie took a seat in a chair against the wall, and Dante sat beside her as she held herself and rocked in time with the incessant beeping of the machine which told her that her cousin’s heart continued to beat.  The whoosh of the respirator was the only thing keeping her breathing at this point, though.  She had no idea how long they sat there like that, but it had to be a while because several nurses came in and out to check on Teresa.

“I’m going to check on Levi,” Dante said, standing.  He patted her shoulder, then squeezed.  “I’ll be back in a bit.”  Mickie nodded, and watched as he left.  The door closed and it felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the small, warm room. 

Maybe she should go outside for some fresh air, she thought, standing.  She picked up her purse and took a step but stopped when the door opened.  It felt like the sun came out in her soul again when Grayson stood in the doorway.  Relief washed through her, and she smiled as she took a step toward him, but stopped when she saw his ravaged face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her insides churning.  The travesty of a smile that curved his mouth scared her. It was more of a baring of teeth, and his frigid eyes froze her insides.

“The gig’s up, Jersey,” he snarled, letting the door ease closed behind him.  Her eyes dropped to the straining muscles in his flushed neck and she saw his heart pounding there.

“What are you talking about? What is a gig?” she asked, her voice trembling under his feral stare. He threw back his head to laugh, a hollow, humorless sound that echoed off of the sterile walls of the room.

“The gig is your acting performance—you totally sold me on the innocent victim act. I bought it, until I got to the punch line. Time for your curtain call, puttana.”

Mickie flinched as if he’d slapped her, because it felt like he had.  Anger blinded her, and her eyes watered as she slid her purse from her shoulder.  She lunged as she swung it at Grayson’s head, but he caught it and yanked it out of her hand, then tossed it on the floor to grab her wrist in a painful hold, while he reached behind him to knock on the door.

The door opened and two men in suits with badges around their necks walked inside. Her body shook when one grabbed her wrist, and Grayson released the other.

“Ms. Girabaldi we have a warrant for your arrest,” the handsome, Latino-looking agent said as he turned her away from him to grab her other wrist.

“For what?” she asked, barely breathing as she pinned Grayson with her eyes. His eyes remained cold, flat, and dead, just how she felt inside.

“You’re being extradited to New Jersey to stand trial for the murder of your uncle, and various racketeering crimes.”  Her head spun as he continued to talk, advising her of her rights, while her heart shriveled from the betrayal by the man she thought she loved.

“When will the arraignment be?” Grayson asked, looking at the second agent.

“It will take us a few days to get her to New Jersey, so I’d say next week sometime.”

“I’ll get all of the evidence I have together and email it to the New Jersey Attorney General, as soon as he sends me the immunity agreement.”

“I’ll let you know when the trial date is scheduled, because I know he’ll want your testimony too,” he replied.

Grayson met her eyes again, and smiled once more. “That will be no problem at all.”

Pain like she hadn’t felt since her Nonna died sliced through her, almost bringing her to her knees as she pinned the devil with her eyes.  She puckered her lips, sucked up saliva and spit it at his feet.  His eyes widened, and he looked at his shoe, then back at her.

“You are dead to me, stronzo. How could I be so stupid as to trust you?”

“Dead men don’t talk,” he replied, his eyes dilated and his nostrils flared. “But I was asking myself that same question this morning.”

The agent who held her arm turned her toward the door and the second agent picked up her purse.  Mickie lifted her chin when he opened the door, but it quivered when she saw her brother standing there with Hawk on one side, and Caleb on the other.

“Can I talk to her first?” Dante asked, looking over her shoulder at the agent.

“No—you need to move out of our way, sir,” the Latino agent said and Dante scowled. 

He reached behind him and pulled out his wallet then flipped it open.  Mickie’s eyes fixed on that gold badge that said he was a federal agent.  Her heart soared, her vision blurred as she looked up at him, but her brother’s eyes looked a lot like Grayson’s had. 

Hard, accusing, and disgusted.

“Do you think I did this too?” she asked, her heart splitting in two.

“I don’t know what to think, Michaela Giselle. I know what I was told, but I haven’t examined the proof he says he has. I’m coming back to Jersey with you to help figure this out.”

“Don’t bother,” she snarled, wanting to spit but unable to work up the saliva as tears poured down her face. “You’re dead to me too.”  Her stomach rolled, and she swallowed hard as she lowered her chin to her chest.  “Please take me to the bathroom, I think I may vomit.”

Or just do the world a favor and die on the floor.

 

Mickie thought she had to be out of tears by the time they led her down the concrete block hallway to a cell, but she was wrong.  When the policewoman stopped at a cell with a thick metal door and only a one-foot-square window with bars, she lost it again. 

Even though it was just a county lockup, until her transfer to New Jersey on Friday, Mickie knew she was staring at the rest of her life.

The policewoman opened the thick metal door and led her inside, then removed the handcuffs.  Mickie’s arms ached as she lowered them to stagger toward the uncovered plastic cot against the wall. She rubbed her raw wrists as she heard the door behind her shut and lock. 

Right now, she wished she was back at the shelter the morning before her interview with Deep Six Security with the knowledge she had now.  She wouldn’t have gone, because trusting Grayson Jennings had been the biggest mistake of her life. But life offered no do-overs and because she had trusted him, this was going to be her life until she died, an orange jumpsuit three sizes too big and four concrete block walls, so she’d better get used to it. 

Maybe she could sleep through most of the nightmare, if she was lucky, she thought, sitting on the edge of the cot to kick off her prison-issued flip flops, which were also too large.  She rolled onto the cot, turned toward the wall and curled into a ball.  Tears dripped onto her forearm which served as her pillow, and then flowed.  In all likelihood, the tears would continue to flow until her heart grew back in her empty chest.

How could he have done it?  He all but told her he loved her. 

If that was love, she wanted no part of it.  She wouldn’t have to worry about that in here, or in the cell she’d be put into in New Jersey after her trial.

They said she’d get a court appointed attorney when she got home, but Mickie knew talking to them would be useless.  Mickie had no defense, because it was lying on death’s door in a Texas hospital.  And the man she thought she loved was going to put the nails in her coffin, or he might as well, if she was convicted of Vinny’s murder too.

God, what must her family think of her right now?  Mickie drifted off to sleep, and prayed she wouldn’t wake up. She wanted to see her Nonna and get a hug.

 

Three days later, Mickie woke up when the door to her cell in Texas opened and sat up when the same two men who arrested her walked inside looking grim. 

“We’re ready to take you to New Jersey, Ms. Girabaldi. We’ll stop to get you breakfast on the way to the airport.” Mickie had no idea what time it was, or even what day.

“I’m not hungry,” she said, her stomach burning hard at the thought of eating anything. If she smelled it, she may have to stick her head in that filthy silver toilet in the corner, and that thought made her want to hurl.

“She hasn’t eaten anything since she’s been here,” the policewoman standing in the door announced. “All she’s done is sleep…and cry.  You may want to put her on a watch.  We put in for an order, but it hasn’t come through yet.” 

The swarthy man holding cuffs, the one who cuffed her before, looked back at the woman. “Thanks, we’ll keep an eye on her.”  He walked to the cot, and his hand was gentle as he took her wrist and helped her up.  “We’ll put this in the front this time. The flight will be a few hours.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a croak because her throat was so dry. Her whole body felt dry, because she probably didn’t have an ounce of liquid to spare for saliva.

No more tears, piccolina. They will do you no good.

“No more tears, Nonna,” she said with a sigh, as she watched him close the cuffs around her wrists.  He left them looser than last time, which was a good thing. Mickie knew she wasn’t going to escape her destiny, so there was no worry about her trying to escape.

The agent tensed and looked at her. “You talking to yourself too? Do we need to have you seen by a doctor before we leave?” he asked.

A rusty laugh floated past her dry lips. “No, but a shower would be welcome.”

“A shower it is, then,” he said with a kind smile.  “I’ll get you a pair of scrubs from the infirmary too, so you don’t have to wear a tent.” 

Her eyes drifted to his badge. “Thank you, Carlos,” she said, and he smiled.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Girabaldi,” he replied.

An hour later she was feeling a little better with clean hair and clothes when she was seated beside him on a small plane with FBI written on the side.  She was very thankful that he was escorting her to New Jersey, because he seemed to realize how difficult this was for her—and care.

“Thank you for letting me shower,” she said, her lips actually sliding over her teeth now.

“You’re welcome,” he replied as he bent over her wrists to remove the handcuffs. “Just don’t do anything stupid, please.”

“That’s not possible since you confiscated my purse,” she joked and he just looked at her. He wouldn’t get it, but saying that brought memories of Grayson teasing her about her purse, of the two times she actually used it on him, and her damned eyes burned again.

No more tears.  She slammed her eyes shut and turned her body toward the window to pillow her head on her hands and drifted to sleep.  At least in her dreams he hadn’t betrayed her.

A forceful bump and loud screech jerked Mickie awake and she glanced at the man beside her, expecting to see Gray—but it was Carlos.  Her body wilted in the seat, and she gripped the armrests until they stopped.  He quickly cuffed her again and unbuckled her seat belt.  After leading her to the door, he helped her down the stairs.

“Good luck, Ms. Girabaldi,” he said as he handed her off to another agent.

“You’re not coming with us?” she asked, her stomach tightening in fear.

“No, ma’am, I have to go back to Dallas,” he said, and Mickie’s eyes burned again as he hustled up the steps.

Face it, Michaela—you have no one now.  Just close your eyes and it will all be over soon.