Fallen Knight: A Dark Mafia Romance (Varasso Brothers Book 1)

by Sophia Reed

  When I got up to go to the john, Gabriel followed as if assigned to me. When I went to wash my hands, it took me a long time. They were encrusted in blood, Molly’s blood, and I had to scrub at the skin hard to get it off. I’d just finished with that when I realized I had blood on my face, too.

  Though I’d refused to think about what if scenarios, seeing the blood on my cheek seemed to trigger something. Something inside of me fractured and gave way. I propped my arms up on the sink, feeling suddenly wobbly.

  What if Molly lost the baby she was carrying? Or what if Molly herself died? What would I do then?

  “If Molly loses the baby, you’ll help her through it,” Gabriel said, letting me know I’d spoken out loud. “And if she dies, you’ll go on. You have Anna, and you have us. You’ll get past it eventually.”

  I caught his eye in the reflection of the mirror, automatically shaking my head. “I can’t…”

  “You can. You have.”

  I closed my eyes as dread rolled over me, trying to knock me to the ground. “No, I can’t. I really can’t, Gabriel,” I choked out, my throat constricting.

  He put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” he said, giving me a little bolstering shake. The saying was a favorite of our Aunt Didi’s. “We don’t know anything yet, and it does us no good to jump to conclusions.”

  I nodded and took a shaky breath, knowing he was right. He didn’t say anything else.

  The hours continued to pass with no news or updates, and I sat back in the waiting room, leaning my elbows on my knees. I dropped my head into my hands as the rest of my body went numb and my mind turned to mush.

  Ten hours from the time Molly’s gurney had been pushed through the ER doors, someone in green scrubs emerged, smudges of blood covering their uniform.

  “Molly Greene’s family?” the man said, pulling down his face mask and removing the surgical cap covering his light hair. He looked haggard, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. All I could care about was hearing that she would be all right. She must be.

  She had to be. Because I couldn’t take it if she wasn’t.

  I leapt to my feet, rushing toward him. “Yes.”

  “We’ve managed to stabilize her for now. She had a bullet lodged in her shoulder that settled lower into her chest cavity, so we removed that one first so her airways would remain unobstructed. The wound in her leg had both an entry and exit wound that went through clean, but the stomach wound has been more difficult to treat.”

  “The bullet nicked her liver, causing her to hemorrhage. There was substantial blood loss, but we did manage to extract the bullet and suture the effected veins. She required a blood transfusion and may require another since her overall liver function has been negatively impacted. She came out of her surgery stable but has since slipped into a coma.”

  For a second, I stared at him, unable to speak. Marco was the one to ask what I couldn’t.

  “Can’t you do anything to wake her? To help her?”

  “We’re doing all we can,” the doctor said, beginning to turn away, but I snatched his arm, forcing the words out.

  “What about the baby?”

  “Ms. Greene is in the earliest stages of pregnancy,” he said, as if that answered my question.

  “Yes, and?”

  “And that means it’s too soon to tell whether or not the trauma she’s sustained will cause her to miscarry. Right now, her injuries have to take precedence. She’ll be transferred to the Intensive Care Unit soon. I’ll have the nurse let you know when you can visit her.”

  Another hour passed with no word, and I seriously considered ripping my hair out by the roots. It was the not knowing that killed me. All these unanswered questions. The doctor had given me more reasons to worry, not less.

  The outcome of whether or not Molly would survive remained up in the air.

  By the time the nurse finally came to get me, I was a jittery mess. I needed to see Molly, to be able to touch her, even if she couldn’t see me or respond in any way. I needed to be by her side, to talk to her, even if she didn’t know I was there.

  The irony of the situation was as often as my brothers and I had been shot or received other injuries due to our line of work, not one of us had ever been admitted to the ICU. The unit was comprised of one, large circular room, the patients inside it placed in beds along the perimeter like the spokes of a wheel.

  Every light seemed to be set to its maximum brightness, and the constant beeps and buzzes from the medical equipment going off was unsettling. Of course, at the moment, pure silence would probably have left me unsettled, as well. Molly had been situated in the second bed from the left, and I rushed to seize her hand with mine.

  She didn’t respond, didn’t wake. I shouldn’t have been disappointed in that, but I was. I guess I’d hoped that she’d sense my presence and somehow be able to pull herself out of her unconscious state. It was too much to ask for.

  It was too much to hope for.

  I gazed into her face. Her skin, normally on the lighter side, seemed yellowish, jaundiced and sickly-looking. Her eyelids were unmoving and her features slack rather than relaxed. She looked different than merely asleep. If it hadn’t been for the faint rising and falling of her chest, I would’ve believed her to be dead.

  There was no seating available, presumably so the medical staff could move in and out of the area without impediments, so I stood there, brushing her hair back from her face. I touched her cheek, careful not to disturb the oxygen tubes placed there, glad it felt warm. Glad for the sign of life. And then I whispered in her ear.

  “Come back to me, Molly. Please come back.”

  Three days passed.

  After the first twenty-four hours, they’d moved her from the ICU and into another room. The nurses had come in and out, bustling around her and checking things. They told me her surgery incisions seemed to be healing, externally at least, at a normal rate. But she hadn’t awakened or stirred for even a second.

  My brothers began to stay with me in shifts rather than the three of them being there at once. I’d glance up to find Marco sitting across the room, or Alessandro staring out the window, or Gabriel standing in the doorway. I lost track of their comings and goings, but one of them remained nearby at all times.

  The next time I saw Marco, he brought me two things: a small round camera lens about an inch wide and a manila file folder.

  “The autopsy reports on our men came back,” he said, handing me the file. “They were full of a poison that works like a paralyzing agent. It was injected into their system by a couple of darts. That’s how they were brought down.”

  “But they were disguised. Did someone blow their covers?”

  “Unknown. But this was done with deadly accuracy. Even though they were on different sides of the street and wearing unrelated disguises, they were taken out within seconds of one another. And no one other than them, Tara Greene and Molly were injured.”

  I studied the file and the camera lens. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the hallway. Sandro has the other one. It was aimed to capture footage from the gym.”

  There was nothing random about this. Not one goddamn thing.

  “It was someone who knows us, then,” I stated. “Someone who knows our men and maybe our methods.”

  “Or someone on the inside,” Marco suggested.

  “You think this is betrayal rather than an enemy attack?”

  My brother’s mouth twisted in an ugly way. “I smell a rat.”

  I wanted to nail down what I could about this, figure out who this was so they could be obliterated from existence, but instead I peered over at the motionless form of Molly. I couldn’t leave her.

  “Marco, I want you and the others to investigate this. Do everything necessary to ascertain whoever’s responsible.”

  He nodded, his expression determined. “Already on it, brother.”

  ***

  Two more days passed.
>
  Her skin had grown less and less jaundiced, so that was a good sign. She’d been on an intravenous drip continually to rehydrate her, so maybe that was helping. Still, her condition remained critical. Touch and go. Her recovery far from certain.

  Earlier when I’d asked if there was anything I could do to help her, the nurse had suggested I give blood. Since she allowed me to do it right there, I did. All my brothers donated, as well. It may not be assisting Molly directly but making some sort of contribution felt better than doing nothing.

  The days and nights began to merge into one extended jumble. I hadn’t rested in all that time, hadn’t been able to. It seemed wrong somehow. Like I would miss the moment when Molly reemerged from wherever she was, and I couldn’t take that chance. Such a thing as a nap felt self-serving to me. Especially when she was teetering on the edge of life and death.

  I didn’t want to think about it, but if I dozed off and missed Molly’s passing, I’d never forgive myself.

  I’d never told her that I loved her. I’d felt like it would put her in jeopardy. Here with her now, I ached to say it, but I knew she couldn’t hear me. And I needed her to hear me. I needed her to be cognizant and aware when she heard those words.

  Instead, I held her hand and silently swore to her that once she awakened, I’d tell her. I’d tell her every day for the rest of my life. I’d known for a long time that I loved her, the kind of love that was deep and abiding, the kind of love that would never die, even if I did. And that was the kind of thing I needed to tell her face to face.

  Greta came by with Anna. It’d been my request. I was used to spending several hours with my baby girl daily, and I missed her. I needed to see her bright face and cheerful eyes. I brought her into the room with Molly, thinking maybe my daughter’s natural happiness might lift the dark cloud that was hovering over me, hovering over the situation in general.

  Anna had touched Molly’s face, too, so delicately. She was such a sweet, nurturing soul, even at such a tender age. I thought for a moment that the rhythm of the beeps on Molly’s monitors had reacted to my daughter’s touch, increasing for the briefest of instants, but when I asked the nurses about it, they reported no change.

  I guess it was just wishful thinking.

  Though my father had been raised Catholic, we’d never practiced any sort of religion as a family. Other than for funerals, we’d never gone into a church for appearances’ or any other’s sake. Faith had never been a part of our lives.

  Yet, as I sat next to the woman I loved languishing in her hospital bed, I raised her hand and laced her fingers with mine, our fingertips pointed upward toward the ceiling. A prayerful pose. I closed my eyes, propped my head on her bed, and began to start an internal dialogue as if someone else could hear me.

  I’m not a good man, I know that. I’ve done a lot of bad things, evil things, so if you’re trying to punish me, I get it. I understand that I deserve it. The Varasso men may all deserve it. We’ve never been anything but criminals. Not in generations. Maybe that’s why you keep cursing us.

  But you’re punishing the wrong people. My mother didn’t do anything wrong. She loved my father, and she loved us. And Alana. She was pure. Innocent. And you stole her away before she had a chance to live, before she could even meet her own daughter. Our Anna, who is an angel is there ever was one.

  And now Molly. She’s had a lot harder life than either my mom or Alana did. So maybe she’s not quite as innocent. But that’s not her fault. You’ve allowed her to get hurt, allowed her sister to die right next to her. I know you might still take our baby. But I’m fighting for her. I’m standing up on her behalf. Because what you’re doing is wrong.

  If you want to punish someone, hurt someone, punish me. Hurt me. Molly doesn’t deserve it. I hate that because I love her and she loves me, she now has a target on her back. Well, I’m asking you to take that target off. To stop taking our wives and mothers and daughters. To stop taking the women we love.

  If you do, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do something good. Something noble. If you let Molly wake up and come back to me, and if you keep our baby safe, I’ll divert a portion of all Varasso profits into good things here in Philadelphia. Charities. Churches. Food banks. Shelters. Scholarships.

  I’ll make sure the tradition is upheld. I’ll make it a requirement. But you have to hold up your end of the bargain first. You’ll have to make it worth my while. If there is an afterlife, if heaven and hell exist, I know where I’m going. And I’m okay with that.

  I’m not going to claim to know how any of this works. I don’t even know if you’re real. But if you are, if you’re listening, I’ll work with you. I’ll make good on this deal. I’ll offer more generosity to the world. I’ll tell Molly the truth about how I feel. I’ll explain everything and never lie to her again. I’ll love her till my dying breath and beyond. I swear it.

  But the curse has to end right here and right now. And it has to end forever.

  I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere in this process, I must’ve entered some weird state of semi-consciousness.

  Even though I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep, I imagined seeing this immense hand reaching out, snatching up my mother, my father, and Alana and pulling them away. It was just about to reach for Molly as she held a brown-eyed baby, when the images meshed unrecognizably before becoming something else.

  Something I eventually concluded to be a memory.

  I was seven and Marco five. Sandro hadn’t been born yet, and we didn’t know about Gabriel. I’d been a boy like any other, darting around and roughhousing without a care in the world. We were with Greta outside in the backyard, playing hide and go seek.

  We’d been playing for a while, though Marco had been younger than me, he could be extra quiet when he wanted to be and was hard to find. Dad appeared through the back door of the mansion and approached.

  He’d been scowling. He always seemed to be scowling. So gruff. He came up to us with a silver pistol in his hand. Ordering Greta to take Marco inside, he thrust the gun into my palm. At the time, I remember it seeming humongous and difficult to lift. It’d dwarfed my hand, its handle coming up past my wrist.

  The yard had been filled with pots of flowers, my mother’s hobby. She’d been gifted with a green thumb and had spent hours watering her plants, tending to them. She’d loved to watch them bloom. My father told me to aim at one of these baskets of flowers, one that hung from the branch of a maple tree, to find it through the sights running down the barrel.

  Maybe because I knew my mom would be upset if I damaged her flowers or because I’d never picked up a gun before, I protested. “I can’t, Dad. It’s too heavy for me to hold.”

  Without warning, he’d backhanded me so ferociously I’d seen stars. “You are a Varasso, and Varassos are strong. There will come a time when this weapon will be the difference between you staying alive or being shot dead. Do you want to be dead?”

  “No,” I’d whimpered, my nose throbbing. He’d nearly broken it. At that point, I’d seen my father be stern, but while he’d yelled at me on occasion, this was the first time he’d ever hit me.

  Prior to that, my mother had explained that my father ran this massive empire, and that he was the king of this empire. She’d told me I was his Crown Prince, the one who would take over for him someday. But I’d been too young and naïve to appreciate the true definition of what that meant.

  This would be my first lesson.

  “You have a responsibility to this family. They will need you to protect them. And you can’t protect them if you’re weak. Do you understand?”

  I nodded even though I didn’t. I didn’t want to be struck again.

  “Now take this pistol and target those red flowers.” He’d pushed the gun into my hand again, arranging my fingers into the correct position. It’d taken me several tries to hold it up high enough to aim, and even then, it’d required both hands, but I did it.

  Afterwards, more of these lessons starte
d to take place. I visited the hidden greenhouses where we processed opiates for delivery for the first time at nine. At ten, I watched my father execute someone. He’d pushed the man down to his knees with his back to us, then he’d shot him at pointblank range. I’d learned by this time that my father expected me not to scream.

  Still, that night, I’d had nightmares.

  At thirteen, he had me execute my own first kill. He’d done me the courtesy of having this man hooded so I couldn’t identify his face. I’d heard him begging for mercy, though. I’d heard him apologizing for whatever he’d done over and over.

  I’d known I needed to pull the trigger. I had to do this for my father, or something bad would happen to me. I’d been scared out of my mind. But I’d done it, mostly out of self-preservation. And then, I’d thrown up right there at my father’s feet.

  When I was fifteen and my mother died in that car accident, I overheard various aunts and uncles mumbling about a curse. I hadn’t known what they were talking about. My brothers and I had been staggered at her loss, grief-stricken by it, but our father had shown us that he expected us to be hard. To not break or show sorrow. At least not outwardly.

  We’d done our best, though at seven, Sandro hadn’t stood a chance. He’d bawled his eyes out as they lowered her casket into the ground, so I’d carried him away from there. Marco had helped me distract him until Greta put him down for a nap, dosing his drink with cold medicine so he’d stay out for a while.

  But later, at the wake, I heard the whole story from an elderly great aunt. Apparently, this happened to every male Varasso at some point. They’d suffer some tragedy, usually something connected to their love lives or families.

  There’d been a list. Before my father had constructed the estate we all lived on now, our family had lived in a different house here in Philadelphia. An earthquake had rumbled through three months after my birth, even though such things were statistically so rare as to be almost unheard of. It’d shaken our home nearly off its foundations, and nearly killed the three of us.