Supernova

When he turned back to the other gamblers at the table, his demeanour had completely transformed. A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, and he sprawled in his chair. He tossed his chips across the green baize, glancing with exaggerated curiosity at the face-up cards he'd been dealt. "Guys, guys, guys," he said a little too loudly, one hand wrapped around the scotch he was served, "let's take a moment to appreciate my good luck charm—" His free hand swirled over the cards, fingers drumming thin air as if he was on the verge of violating the taboo and touching the cards in blackjack. The dealer's focus was instantly snapped away from his misdeeds when he grandly pronounced, "—Isabella Rossi."

That name meant something to anyone so far away in Las Vegas, who had heard shadowy rumours of the family. That was only step one. He then took the most calculated gamble of his life and half-rose from his chair to be at level with Isabella. The grin was still plastered across his face, but his eyes were hard green stone. She would learn exactly how he dealt with challenges flung his way. "Per fortuna, mia bella," he drawled. "Be good to me." He leaned in and kissed her, chaste but firm, and sank back into his seat with a heaviness that only the two of them knew was fake.

"Mia Madonna!" he sighed, as if the combination of liquor and Isabella had tipped him over the edge of sobriety. "No one else at this table stands a chance." Don't you know it, he thought in cold victory, watching their pleasantly incredulous faces. And then his flailing left hand knocked into the glass, accidentally spilling his drink over not just his cards, but the dealer's deck. His jaw dropped in shock. "So very sorry," he stuttered to the dealer, mildly drunk and lust-filled arrogance replaced with mildly drunk contrition. He stacked his bet even more so that greed would overpower the urge to call security.

But this time, his appearance did nothing for her. When he brushed the receptionist off with his steely gaze and directed her towards the elevator, she only nodded and sprinted towards them. Eva pressed the button to signal for a lift, then pressed it again and again. To stand and wait, even for two seconds, seemed impossible. She couldn’t be idle, not now. Not when her sister was likely dying so close to her and yet so far away. The elevator arrived after what seemed like an eternity and Eva stepped inside, watching Preston follow. 

It made his lip curl to think that they were still in the dark about Genevieve's condition; the Rossis sucked the air out of any room they walked into, Preston wasn't used to waiting and seeing when one malevolent look and the right combination of words could get the job done. Still, this wasn't his show. As much as that didn't sit exactly right with his fibre of who he was, he was capable of playing second-fiddle when he didn't have a choice otherwise.  And with his uncle looking this bad, there wasn't a choice that didn't involve staying by his side.

"If you," he began, not sure how he could say it without sounding utterly, drippingly sarcastic, "if you, ah, wanted to go check out the hospital chapel or whatever... I could inform you if the doctor comes with any news. Better privacy in the dark to finish those Ava Marias than in someplace that smells like an antiseptic orange."

The car pulled to the curb just as Eva broke through the front door of her apartment building, completely ignoring the doorman. She slid into the back, removing the revolver she had hidden underneath her coat. Leveling it at the driver’s head, Eva spoke with a cool voice that betrayed nothing. “You have fifteen minutes to get to St. Rose Hospital, or I will blow your brains out.” The threat hit its mark well, and within seconds they were burning rubber.

With the driver’s attention otherwise engaged, Eva pulled her phone out and made a call to Emilio. She left a message on his voicemail, only just catching herself from breaking into sobs. As she hung up, she ignored all rules of road safety and knelt on the backseat. She made the sign of the cross and continued her whispered desperate pleas to God. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself praying for the safety of her family. As a little girl, she had said her nightly prayers with a few unorthodox additions. 'God, please keep my Daddy safe. He's been yelling at Mommy and Uncle Tomas a lot. Please don't let him get hurt like my Uncle Rafael.' The prayers had changed as she grew, but they were no less frequent. 'Jesus, why did you have to take my Mommy to Heaven with you? I need her back please.' And finally, 'Holy Mother, keep my brother safe from harm.' After Eduardo’s death, the prayers had stopped coming almost completely. Why pray when none of her pleas were answered?

But now, she wished for a faith like Gianna’s. That maybe if she interceded with a God-fearing heart, He might listen to her this time. But even as she prayed, all she could see was Eduardo’s cold hand in hers. She could remember the feeling so clearly; clammy skin, cool from the lack of blood flow as she’d hovered over the metal slab that held his gunshot ridden body. And all she could think was, please, please, not again.

Fifteen minutes she'd said, but the last hour had been a blur of bile. Preston's face had remained impassive like marble, but he hadn't even had the energy to shove the gangrenous knife into Dean and twist the hilt. The worst of it seemed to fall away from him to see Eva safe and whole. Of course, the very fact that they were in public seemed to flip off a switch. A mask of cold composure was fitted in place; he was one of the Rossi soldati, and he was incapable of being anything less than good at his job.

He sucked in a deep, hard breath, surveying the sterile hospital corridor. He wasn't ready to get sucked into a mire of dirty nostalgia and crippling grief. He had never actually seen his uncle function through it, but then again, Uncle Tommy had always been invincible in his eyes. "When can you go in to see her?" he asked, nodding cursorily in the direction of where they'd watched Genevieve be wheeled away.

Preston tapped his uncle lightly on the shoulder, holding out a Styrofoam cup of spiked espresso. He knew that stance: that face half-covered motion wasn't one he had seen many times, and despite himself, very, very deep down inside, it bothered him to see his uncle this strung-out. Not that sentimentality would help, but if prayer worked for Uncle Tommy, then bully for him. Preston was getting really tired of seeing the Rinaldis picking off Eva's family one by one.

"Hospital perimeter's secure, incidentally," he added, aware he might as well be talking to a wall. "Dean's around front, and I got someone to cover my position when I went on the coffee run." I wanted to check up on you. Preston Phillips wasn't expected to do sentimentality. "Done spitting blood yet?"