How To Own A Mafia Boss

Chapter 3: The Angel That You Know

"Who tried to kill you?"

He's been still for an entire week. It's scary how solid the stranger is on that bed, unmoving but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. No finger twitch, no movement beneath his eyelids. Even though the doctor says the wound on his face and those from the gunshots are healing nicely, there is no sign of recovery.

I should take the doctor's word for it, considering four strategic bullets were removed from him, along with the shock and seeming brain damage that came with almost drowning. He should be dead by now. He would be dead if I'd gone into the water a moment later. He'd be dead if I hadn't performed CPR on him. At least, that's what the doctor says.

I don't believe her.

He was still alive when I'd gone into the water, even after a few moments of making sure his attackers weren't lurking around. He had held on to my hand tighter when I'd almost lost my grip on him underwater. He'd held some of his own weight when I was hauling him to the shore, before he'd collapsed unconscious. And what's more, a part of me is convinced that this man would still be alive even if I hadn't gone after him. He would have found a way to save himself.

It's crazy, but maybe he let himself give in to his exhaustion because he trusted that I was trying to save him. Maybe, just maybe. It's implausible, but that's what my head is going with.

He's huge. The hospital bed seems cramped, and his legs are almost reaching the foot. This is one force of nature, a beast.

I wonder who'd be wicked enough to do this much damage. I'm handy with a knife, so I know how damaging the spots he was shot were. Someone was desperately angling to end this man.

I'm so glad he didn't die. I'm glad I'm the one that was used to save him. And I really, really would want to see a twitch, a sign that he'll come back.

"Who tried to kill you?" I ask again, and the beep of the heart monitor is my response.

When the doctor comes in a few minutes later, it's with a stretcher and a row of nurses. Living on a small island like this means I'm acquainted with almost everyone that comes into the room, and they all look at me with concern.

"We're moving him to the general ward. If you don't mind, Miss Ashbourn?"

I glare at Dr. Willis. Just because she's been my family doctor since I was five doesn't mean she can call me by that infernal name.

"It's AJ. And I'll be waiting for you in the consulting room."

Joe, my good friend and one of the nurses, smiles at me as if he's trying to transfer comfort to me through the tilt of his lips. I manage a tired smile back.

I try to prepare myself as much as possible before the doctor shows up again. Before she talks, I raise a hand. "Give me the dumbed-down version." I know how she likes to use the medical jargon, and usually, I'd let her amuse herself, but not today.

I'm too nervous and scared of her verdict.

She's not pleased by my interruption. "He hit his head pretty badly, and obtained trauma to his brain. It is a very delicate issue, and I just want you to know that we might very well be dealing with. . .well, someone who has obtained permanent damage to cognitive and psychosocial functions."

"What are you saying?"

"We can't say for sure — not till he regains consciousness, but the complications might be more than we know." She smiles encouragingly, but I'm too distraught by the news to smile back this time.

"So what do I do? Tell me, Doctor. We can't just let him. . .waste away? I'll do anything."

She shakes her head. "Then pray. In the meantime, the police have marked the cliff and the beachside as a crime scene. I'm sorry, but you have to make yourself available for questioning whenever they call you."

I nod. "And his family? Surely, he must have people looking for him, right? He must have been kidnapped and left to die. We have to reach them and tell them he's alive."

"Miss Ashbourn—"

"My name is AJ!"

It goes silent after my impassioned shout, and I realize how worked up I've gotten. This is not me. I was tired before I hauled a six and a half feet man out of a beach one week ago, but it's not just the physical stress anymore. I'm drained mentally and emotionally from worrying myself sick about him, and I didn't even realize it till now.

How will I pay his bills? What will happen if he enters a vegetative state or worse, dies? I'm the one who saved him, whether I like it or not, I have this responsibility.

Sympathy floods the doctor's eyes, and I immediately feel terrible for snapping at her. "AJ. I'm sorry. We can't alert anyone till he wakes up and tells us for sure who he is and how he got here. He's in more danger alive than dead, and we can't do anything till we're sure it's safe."

I nod, even though I'm unsatisfied. I might need to talk to the Sheriff to understand better. "Thank you very much, Dr. Willis. I'm sorry for sounding like that earlier. I know you're just doing your best."

She nods gracefully, and I leave the hospital feeling more at a loss than ever.

***

I show Simone around the next day. Since she's going to be moving into the house I lived with my parents and brother — while I stay in the flat upstairs of Deónne's — I decided to get her settled in.

"When are you moving your things to Beachbay?" I ask her, gesturing to the main door of the bakery.

"They should be here by next week. You know, Quentin told me about this place. He said he lived here with you after your parents died."

As usual, hearing someone else talk about my parents' death makes my throat hurt, but I swallow it down. "Yeah. It got depressing living in the big house without them. This felt like a haven." At least, until Quentin began to misbehave and steal from me. "I can show you his room later if you'd like."

I leave her to come to a decision about that, entering Deónne's and waving a greeting to my customer. She stays close by my side through it all, absorbing — as she should. Since my brother robbed her of any means of livelihood, this is going to be her new home, or at least, till she gives birth.

"Do you know why Quentin became the way he was?" She asks the minute we enter the storage unit. That's what she has been doing, seizing every opportunity to talk about my brother. She's a voracious audience, and it's disheartening to see how much of a hold he still has on her. How hungry she is for him.

To make matters worse, a picture of Quentin and myself is hung up beside the refrigerator, with our goofy smiles and dorky tank tops. I hate that picture so much, but I can't bring myself to remove it.

I sigh. Honestly, I'm tired of talking about my little s**t of a twin brother, but if that's what she needs, I have to give it. "I don't know if he told you, but our parents were our rocks. We were so helpless after they died, that we both started to search for coping mechanisms. I turned to helping with Deónne's and Quentin, he... fell into bad hands. Some days, being in the bakery made him ridiculously happy. He'd smile, joke around and make everyone laugh. Other days, he'd be so angry. It made me sad, seeing his anguish over something that used to make him happy."

She nods softly. "He told me about Deónne's. That you had no interest in running it. All you wanted to do—"

"Was pursue a professional degree," I finish with a laugh that is harsh even to my own ears. "Everyone knew. My parents knew. They didn't force it since Quentin already loved the family business so much." I look at the picture again, our matching light eyes and brown skin. "But it's mine now."

"Will you still — Do you still have plans for school?"

I grimace, picking up one of the knives from the sink to distract myself. "I have a life here now, and I plan to make the most out of it. Let's go to the kitchen."

She nods, and I have a distinct feeling she feels pity for me. I lead the way, ignoring that thought and how it makes me feel. I don't need her pity.