He gently traced his forefinger under my swollen eye; I desperately wanted to feel his touch, but I couldn’t. “I’ll make this right,” he said. “I promise.”

I closed my eyes, remembering the old, dank smell of the warehouse with a start. I saw a line of scattered crates stretch out before me into the darkness. Nic and his brothers were standing in a solitary patch of light, arguing.

When I opened my eyes again, Nic was lifting his hand away from my face, but his attention was still trained on me. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

In my botched peripheral vision, I could make out my mother; pools of tears were spilling into the corners of her eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about any of this. I thought you were with Millie until Jack came banging on the door. I had no idea what he was doing. I had no idea about any of this.”

I could see her then, in another time and place, weeping as she was now, wearing the same pajamas, and slippers I had gotten her for Christmas.

I reached out and patted her arm in what I hoped was reassurance, but I could barely feel the gesture because of the morphine. When I felt satisfied with the feeble attempt, I tried to sit up.

“Stop,” Nic murmured, putting his hand on mine. “Don’t try to move just yet, OK?”

Stop. Nic had yelled that in the warehouse. That was right before he shot Jack. Jack. “Jack,” I wheezed. It barely made a sound, but my mother understood.

“It appears your uncle made it out alive.” There was no emotion in her voice. I wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Cautiously I flicked my gaze to Nic. His expression was unreadable. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or not by the news, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. I looked away from him, too, but our fingers remained entwined.

When my head hit the pillow again it seemed to lift the rest of the fog in my brain. My memory flashed; the bullets were raining down around me as I huddled with my mother on the floor. I saw Jack, first holding a gun, and then clutching his hand as spurts of blood ran down his arm. Below us, Luca’s eyelids fluttered, his chest heaving unsteadily. He was lying in a pool of his own blood, and my fingers were inside his body, holding him together.

Suddenly the image of Luca crumpling to the ground crashed into my mind, and every single harrowing memory of our escape littered my thoughts. I gasped so hard it stung my chest. I threw my hands out, flailing them helplessly, until Nic returned his attention to me. He grabbed them and settled them back by my side, brushing his fingers across mine. “It’s OK,” he soothed.

“Luca?” I wheezed. “Where is Luca?” My breathing quickened to match my heart rate and suddenly the room began to spin. Nic was reaching for something in his pocket. The pain in my ribs resurfaced and rattled against my skin. A strangled scream sprang from my chest.

My mother was on her feet, settling me. “He survived,” she said. “He’s alive as well, sweetheart. He’s alive.”

Nic unfolded the piece of paper he was holding. “He’s down the hall. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s recovering. We got him here just in time.”

“You saved him,” I said, feeling myself smile. It felt heavenly not to have to worry anymore. “You shot Jack’s gun out of his hand.”

“It really was remarkable,” my mother echoed. I could tell by her tone that she couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or disapproving.

“You saved him,” said Nic. His expression was sheepish, his eyes dark. “You stopped the bleeding.”

“You were so brave, sweetheart.” My mother started to stroke my forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Here,” Nic said, handing me the note he’d already opened. “He’s not able to walk around yet, but he wanted me to give this to you when you woke up.”

I grabbed it more fiercely than I intended to, almost ripping it. It was simple and short, written in neat black lettering. It took me a while to read it:

I told you to go home.

I felt myself grin. Nic was watching me intently; two dimples punctured the skin above his brows and his mouth was pursed. I caught his eye and the sternness disappeared. He smiled at me encouragingly.

“Pen?” I asked him.

My mother rustled around in her purse and handed me one. I turned the note over and wrote on the back. It took me far longer than it should have, and when I finished, the morphine-guided script was wobbly and disjointed, veering up and down the paper like a six-year-old had written it:

Aren’t you glad I have no respect for your authority?

I folded it over and handed it to Nic. “Will you give this to him, please?”

His frown returned, and this time he didn’t hide it. “Sure,” he said, glancing at the piece of paper as he stepped out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”

My mother leaned over me and dropped her voice. “The police were here earlier asking questions. I expect they’ll be back.”

“No statements,” I replied, falling back into my pillow. I wanted to say more, but I was losing my energy again.

My mother didn’t appear surprised by my answer. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, either.”

“Welcome to omertà,” I murmured. My tongue was thick and heavy in my mouth.

“Omertà,” she repeated quietly, and I could tell by her tone she already knew what it meant.