Sweetest Sorrow (Forbidden Book 2) (9 page)

Had he been bothered, he would've complained, considering he complained about
everything
.

She squeezed around the other side of the bed, just enough space for her to move, plucking the card off of a vase of light blue hydrangeas. She pulled the card out of the little envelope, glancing at it. No specific name signed to it, simply, '
The Brazzi family sends their regards
.'

Frowning, she stuck the card back in the envelope, returning it to the flowers.
What a friggin cop-out
.

"You find someone I can call?" Dante asked, so close those words grazed across the back of her neck. She shook her head, not sure what to say. "Didn't think so."

"It'll get better," she said. "Maybe ask for some pizza when they order your lunch."

"Tried it," he said. "The pizza here is
shit
."

She scowled. It wasn't
that
bad. She ate it often.

"I should go," she said, turning to him in the bed. "Take care of yourself, Dante."

She grasped his shoulder, squeezing. He didn't react. He didn't say anything. Instead, he closed his eyes, once again draping his arm across them, blocking out the world.

Gabriella left the hospital and took the subway home to her small one-bedroom apartment in Little Italy, on the fifth floor of a rustic brick walk-up with an Italian market below. Exhausted, she made the trek up the narrow staircase leading to her door. She unlocked it once she got there, stepping inside.

Straight ahead was a small kitchen, cut off from the rest of the place by a thin wall. Beyond that, an open living room, little more than a black couch and an old coffee table with a television across from it, affixed to the white-painted wall. Behind a sliding door with frosted glass was her bedroom, the full bed taking up most of the space, leaving just enough room for her dresser and well, her
mess
.

Cleaning wasn't exactly her biggest priority. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Gabriella hated doing laundry, especially since the washing machines were in the basement of the building.

Down a short hall, beside the bedroom, was the lone bathroom, the size of a closet, one you could barely walk in. It wasn't much. By her parents' account, it wasn't
enough
. They worried about her living in the city, but Gabriella loved it.

She loved being self-sufficient.

Stripping out of her clothes, flinging them on the floor, Gabriella fell into her bed, face-planting her pillow, desperate for sleep.

After tossing and turning for a few hours, dozing off to inexplicably find herself awake again, Gabriella forced herself back out of bed to shower. Time moved fast while she shuffled slow, putting on a fresh pair of scrubs before making her way back to the hospital.

Another night.

Another shift.

Twelve more hours in the ICU.

On the way, she stopped at Como's Pizzeria, grabbing a small pepperoni pie to go. She detoured in the lobby of the hospital, heading to the information desk, approaching the woman sitting there, answering phones.

"Can you have a volunteer take this up to the general ward?" she asked, handing over the red and white pizza box. "Room 245... patient's name is Dante Galante."

"Uh, sure." She eyed Gabriella with suspicion, the morally gray area beginning to turn dark. "Is this from
you
?"

"I'm just delivering it," she said. "Nothing more."

Gabriella started to walk away when the woman called out, "Who's it from?"

She considered that before answering, "Tell him it's from a friend who thinks red Jell-O sucks."

Gabriella headed to a bank of elevators just as one opened. She stepped in with a few others, someone strolling in right behind her. A throat cleared as the doors closed, and Gabriella came face-to-face with Crabtree. "Doctor."

"Nurse." He nodded tersely. "Nice night for pizza, huh?"

"It's always a nice night for pizza," she said. "There's nothing better."

* * *

"
H
ave
I told you lately that I love you?" Genna mumbled with her mouth full. "Because I totally do."

Smiling to himself, Matty tore the plastic off the top of the tub of ice cream. She'd told him she loved him a moment earlier and a few minutes before that, too. In fact, she'd been repeating it non-stop since he'd carried groceries inside. "It's always nice to hear."

"Good, because I seriously love you."

Glancing over his shoulder, Matty watched as she shoveled a bite in her mouth with a plastic spoon, eating straight from the pan.

Chocolate cake with strawberry icing. Who knew how hard it would be to find? Every bakery had chocolate cake covered with vanilla or buttercream or even more chocolate but no damn strawberry to be found. So after searching for over a week, he gave up, buying the ingredients and a damn pan, baking one in the ancient oven.

It looked like shit. He was almost ashamed. He hadn't waited for it to cool before icing it, so crumbles of chocolate cake coated the top. He covered it with a container of chocolate sprinkles, giving up, hoping it would suffice.

It was the thought that counted, right?

The cake looked dry, like he'd baked it too long, and it came out of a box courtesy of Betty Crocker, but Genna devoured it like Martha Stewart herself had whipped it up in her kitchen.

"For the record: I love you, too," he said, pulling the top off of the ice cream tub. Half of it had melted in the heat, the freezer in the house worthless. Chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry converged, creating a discolored mess. Grabbing a plastic spoon, he dug it in, watching as liquid ran off the sides. "So, you want some soup to go with your cake?"

Genna took a few steps over, pausing behind him, and glanced at the ice cream. She shrugged and dug her cake spoon straight into the carton. "I like it better this way."

Matty leaned back against the counter, regarding her. "You're kidding."

"Nope," she said, giving up pretense and grabbing the entire carton, hugging it to her chest. She stuck her spoon in and stirred, mixing the flavors together. "My brother and I used to eat all of our ice cream like this."

Matty eyed her curiously as she said that. He knew she was talking about Dante, considering she'd been too young to ever remember Joey being alive. Matty remembered him, though. And one thing he never forgot about him was that if you gave Joey ice cream to eat, he'd mix it up until he could drink it. "Really?"

A small, wistful smile ghosted across Genna's lips. "Yeah, we'd wait until it was all melted and just slurp it from the bowl. It drove my parents crazy. I still do it sometimes, but he doesn't..." She paused, her smile falling. "I mean, he
didn't
. After my mom died, he stopped. He grew up too quick after that."

Genna stared down at the ice cream in silence, lost in a memory. Matty stayed quiet, giving her that, and didn't chime in until she took another bite. "Joey used to eat his ice cream that way."

Her eyes widened. "He did?"

"Galante family trait, I guess. Can't even eat ice cream right. Gotta make things messy."

Genna laughed, her expression brightening just a bit. "I am pretty good at making things messy."

"That you are," Matty agreed. "Might even go so far as to call it your specialty."

M
anhattan found
itself in a late summer heat wave.

Dante could feel the passing of time as he sat on the small metal bench along the sidewalk, in front of the hospital, the muggy heat sticking to his sweaty skin. It had barely been August the last time he remembered, but there it was, already September, fall just a few weeks away. Blinked, and he missed it, the days ticking by. It was like sleeping through a month of your life… a month where everything you knew vanished.

It was like waking up in a new world, a different world, a world Dante didn't fucking like.

This world was stifling.

"I see you've been sprung."

The familiar female voice ghosted across Dante's warm skin, so close he damn near shivered. Nurse Russo stood just a few feet beside him, clad in her blue scrubs.

"More like I escaped."

"With the doctor's blessing?"

Dante shrugged. "Figured he was tired of looking at me."

Laughing, Nurse Russo took a step forward, motioning to the metal bench. "Mind if I join you?"

Dante slid over, giving her some room. "By all means, plop your ass on down."

She sat down, not leaving much space between them. A hint of her perfume wafted toward him, subtle but sweet, barely strong enough to be detected yet it was enough to make his head swim.
Vanilla
. He'd been lightheaded since he signed the release forms, leaving against medical advice. They wanted to keep him a few more days, out of precaution, but he'd denied that request.

But as he sat there, he wasn't sure why he'd insisted on leaving. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go.

"I'm Gabriella, by the way." She held her hand out to him. "Friends call me Gabby."

Dante hardly touched her hand before pulling away. "Dante, but you already knew that."

"I did," she said, "but it's nice to hear
you
say it, seeing as how you were refusing to say much at all."

"Yeah, well, you never know who you can trust," he said. "Besides, they didn't care about anything I had to say, so there was no point in saying it. They wanted to hear what they wanted to hear, and I'm not really in the business of placating assholes."

"I get it," she said. "It's kind of sad, though."

"What?"

"You feeling like you can't trust anyone."

"I wouldn't call it sad," he said. "That's how life is."

"Sounds lonely."

Lonely, yeah… that he would admit. The life he chose was a lonely existence. People always surrounded him, but very few were ever actually
there
. Forced smiles, frozen faces, the warmest greetings known to man. All of it, every second, every moment, was calculated, fabricated, little more than premeditated motions. People rarely smiled at him to be friendly. No, they smiled to hide their fear. They smiled to get on his good side, to gain some leverage, to feel like they had the upper hand. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side, so they smiled, grinning from ear-to-fucking-ear, dreading what would happen if they didn't.

Dante hadn't intended to become this person. Hell, he still wasn't sure it was even him. He was little more than a caricature, a face attached to a name. That was what it meant to be a Galante. People came with a predetermined set of beliefs about what kind of man he would be, and he spent his life struggling to live up to that. The loyal soldier, following his father's orders, fighting a war that had almost cost him his life. He hadn't enlisted… he'd been drafted at birth.

He never complained before. Complaining was pointless. He did it because it was his duty. He did it because it was his birthright. And he'd always believed what he was doing was for the best, but now? Now he wasn't so sure.

Because being that soldier had cost him a lot, more than he'd been willing to pay.

He wanted a fucking refund.

"It's not so bad," he said. "As long as I can count on myself, I don't really need anyone else."

"Well, that's something, I guess," she said. "So… how are you feeling?"

He cut his eyes her direction at that question.
How are you feeling
? She stared at him eagerly as she awaited his answer, like she truly wanted to know.

"Dead," he admitted. "I feel dead."

"That's normal," she said, before amending, "well, maybe not
normal
, but it's understandable. You almost did die. You're lucky to be alive."

"So shouldn't I be rejoicing?" he asked. "Shouldn't I be celebrating getting another chance?"

"Probably," she said, "but I guess it depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you value your life."

He was quiet, stewing over those words, as he picked at his fingernails. "I'm not suicidal. You don't have to sit here and talk me off of a ledge."

"I don't think you're suicidal," she said, "but suicidal people aren't the only ones who jump."

He shook his head. "You don't know me."

"But I know people like you," she said. "People who value pride and loyalty. People who keep fighting because it's what they think they're supposed to do. People who refuse to let go out of stubbornness. People who jump, believing they'll land on their feet."

Dante clenched his hands into fists. "Like I said, Nurse Russo, you don't know me."

"It's Gabby," she said, her voice calm despite the hint of anger in his tone that should've warned her away. "And I don't have to know you, Dante. Not really. But I had a brother once. I had a brother who was strong, and stubborn, and the furthest thing from suicidal. But he was also someone who valued his pride more than his life. I had a brother who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. He didn't do it because he wanted to die. No, he did it thinking, somehow, he'd live. Someone told him he wouldn't, and so he did." She stood, placing a hand on Dante's shoulder, squeezing. "I hope everything works out for you. If you ever need someone to talk to, you know… if you ever decide you want to trust someone again… I'd be more than happy to listen. Just try not to jump, you know, unless you're certain the consequences are worth it."

Dante watched her as she walked away. His stomach twisted in knots. She'd gotten under his skin. He didn't like it. They'd only had a handful of conversations and yet she had him nailed down like he'd been an open book.

The worst part was that she wasn't wrong. His pride was all he had left at that point.

Standing up, he straightened the set of paper-thin borrowed scrubs he wore, ones the hospital had provided before showing him the door. His clothes had been cut off of him on arrival, had been taken as evidence by the police, along with any belongings that had been in his pockets… if the Barsantis had left him with anything. He didn't know. He hadn't asked. Until then, he hadn't even cared. But suddenly, he was itching to get his hands on his wallet.

Without it, he couldn't even afford subway fare.

No money. No phone. Not even a friend.

"Nurse Russo?" he called out, catching her before she entered the hospital.

She paused. "Please, call me Gabby."

He nodded, acknowledging that. His stomach churned. He could see her hope, that wide-eyed innocence, like she thought she'd gotten through to him.

He hated to have to squash it.

"I was just wondering if you had a few bucks you could lend me," he said, hating every syllable that came from his lips. He loathed himself for asking. He felt small. Emasculated. "I wouldn't ask... fuck, I know I shouldn't ask... but I've got nothing on me, and it's hard to get around this city when you've got nothing, you know?"

He wanted to dig a hole in the ground and crawl right in it, throw some dirt on him and call it a fucking night.

"Oh, uh, yeah..." She opened her purse and dug around inside of it, whipping out a yellow card. "Actually, I've got a MetroCard, if that'll help?"

He hesitated, not because it wouldn’t help—it would—but because his pride was strong. So, so fucking strong. Asking for help was hard enough. Accepting it, taking it, almost proved to be too much. She seemed to get that, because she rolled her eyes, stepping toward him and forcing the card in his hand.

“Go home,” she said, her small hand on top of his, squeezing, forcing him to grip the card. “Or go to a friend’s. Go somewhere, anywhere, but don’t just hang around here."

“Tired of looking at me?” he asked.

She shook her head, letting go. “I just think maybe other people might be missing you, instead."

She headed into the hospital then, disappearing through the front entrance. Glancing down at the MetroCard, he set off toward the subway. She was wrong. They didn’t miss him. They missed who they thought he was.

They missed who they expected to come back.

An hour and a few connections later, Dante ended up standing on the lawn in front of the house he grew up in, north of the city, in Westchester County. Sweat pooled along his brow, beads of it running down the side of his face. He felt woozy, more exhausted than he’d ever been before. His legs weren’t what they used to be. His knees shook, wanting to give out on him as he stood there, taking it all in.

The house looked like home. It looked like
his
home. But it didn’t quite feel like home anymore. 

Right out front, prominently parked, were two familiar cars: his black Mercedes, and behind it, Genna’s BMW. That twinge of hope flared deep in his bones but he pushed it back, knowing if he gave in to the sensation, it would only hurt worse. If anything, her car was confirmation of the truth. Like his mother’s belongings tucked away in the attic, their cars would’ve sat there forever, rusting away, collecting dust, tangible keepsakes their father clung to like maybe, if he kept it around, he could say he had a piece of them left.

Carefully, Dante approached the house, reaching for the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. It turned smoothly, his grip slipping a bit because of his sweaty palms. He pushed it open, stepping in the doorway, just as someone walked by. The familiar form skidded to a stop in the foyer, swinging around, on defense, a hand going straight for a waistband where Dante knew they kept their gun. It didn’t faze him, though, not in the least—not even when they drew their weapon and aimed it at his head.

“You shoot me, Bert, and I won’t be the only one who winds up dead,” Dante said, stepping into the foyer and closing the front door.

Before him stood Umberto Ricci, arguably one of Dante's closest friends, although he doubted how far that sentiment went now. Weeks in the hospital and Umberto hadn’t stopped by at all.

Not a peep from the guy.

Umberto lowered his gun, pointing it at the floor near his feet. “Dante?"

“Last I checked." Dante eyed him peculiarly. “You did know I was alive, right?"

“Yeah, uh… I mean… of course, yeah.” Umberto nodded, seeming to shake off the surprise as he tucked his gun away. “I knew you were alive, that you’d survived, but knowing is one thing… seeing you is completely different. Just… wow. You’re here. You’re… alive."

“Again, last I checked. What are you doing here?"

“I’ve just been helping your father out, keeping him company and all that."

“Is he home?"

“Your father?"

Dante nodded.

Who the hell else would he be talking about?

“Oh, yeah… he’s in his office.” Umberto motioned toward the office, like Dante wouldn’t remember where it was located. “He’s asleep, though… was up all night. Hell, he's up most nights. Didn't expect you home for a few more days. I can wake him…"

“Don’t bother,” Dante said, shrugging it off as he set his sights on the stairs. “I could use some sleep myself."

“Of course,” Umberto mumbled. “You, uh… sure."

Dante shot him a peculiar look. Nervous, he realized. Umberto was
nervous
. Genna used to call the guy a bumbling idiot, and he was certainly acting like one now.

Dante didn’t have it in him to deal with that, though. Shaking his head, he walked up the stairs, leaving his old friend alone in the foyer. He went straight to his old bedroom, looking around when he opened the door. It was spotless, nothing out of place, all of his belongings right where he’d left them, like it had all just been sitting there, awaiting his inevitable return.

Curiosity nagged at Dante as his gaze drifted across the hall to his sister's bedroom door. Quietly, he stepped over, gripping the knob, hesitating before opening it.

A disaster greeted him.

Clothes were strewn everywhere. It was nothing new where Genna was concerned. The girl lived in chaos, while Dante always preferred order. Something in the room drew his attention, though, and he stepped further inside, careful not to trample on any of her things. Across the room, near her closet, on the floor, was a black duffle bag. A few pieces of clothing had been tossed in it, but otherwise, the thing was empty.

They were going to run, Gavin had said.

Guess they weren't fast enough.

After looking around, Dante headed back across the hall. He hadn't lied about needing some sleep. As exhausted as he felt, he could've slept for
days
, but he'd been out of commission already for too long. Anarchy had reigned in his absence. As much as he wished everything could go back to normal, it was impossible, because normal was gone.

So as he stood there, stripping out of the scrubs, he thought about where to go from there.

He considered his options. All of them sucked.

Stepping into his connecting bathroom, he turned on the shower, leaving the water scorching hot. What would Genna do? What had she done?

She'd rebelled.

It was in her nature. If you told her she had to go left, she'd deliberately veer right. Unlike Dante, the obedient soldier, Genna forged her own path. She was free-spirited like their mother. Dante always admired that about her. He'd been raised to be unyielding like his father. He saw only black and white. But Genna saw the gray area. She'd lived in it.

The gray area
. That was what Nurse Russo had called him. She saw in shades of gray, too.

Maybe I ought to be more like that.