Chapter 43 He Has Everything To Do With My Injuries

I borrowed a charger from the nurse, plugged it in, and waited anxiously before pressing the power button on my phone. It lit up immediately, and I couldn't help but sigh in relief. Thankfully, my phone was still functional.

I quickly opened my email, logged into social media, and checked my contacts. It had been two hours since the attack, yet there were no messages from Antonio. What had happened to him? Did he know where I had left from? Or had he tried calling when my phone was off?

Holding my phone, I hesitated. Antonio was involved with the mafia; was he safe now? Would calling him put him in greater danger? I shouldn't be so concerned about his safety, but I couldn't help wondering if I would be relieved or devastated if he had been killed in the attack. After all, I would be free from the threats and my father’s debts would be settled. I felt liberated, yet why was there a sense of loss?

I attributed my feelings to Stockholm syndrome. The doctor thought I had a concussion from falling off the second floor and needed to stay in the hospital for observation. They didn’t connect me to the shooting, treating me as an innocent bystander.

The nurse brought me some mineral water and bread. I wasn't hungry and felt slightly nauseous, but at her insistence, I opened the bread. It was fluffy, but it made my mouth dry after a few bites. Drinking the water helped warm and settle my stomach.

"You can lay down and rest, just try not to touch your wounds," the nurse advised as I lay on the hospital bed. "I’ll take care of your injuries."

As I took off my sneakers, revealing my dirty, scarred feet, tears involuntarily fell. "Don’t cry, it will stop hurting soon," the nurse, a gentle girl, reassured me as she carefully removed the blood-scabbed bandages that stuck to my insoles, causing a pain sharp as tearing flesh. Glass shards embedded in my feet were removed with tweezers, bringing tears and snot from the pain, yet her touch was tender.

A doctor examined my feet, noted my previous injuries had worsened with running, and advised against it, suggesting I wear an ankle brace.

All the damage was connected to Antonio, which explained the loss I felt. I couldn’t forgive myself; Antonio had abandoned me, proving that I was just a disposable mistress to him, yet I had believed his tenderness was genuine. Crying, I fell asleep and didn’t notice my phone lighting up with missed calls. I was woken by a nightmare where I was being shot, feeling an intense pain in my heart as I awoke.

Clutching my chest, I gasped for air, tears streaming onto the pure white sheets. I saw it was only 5:46 AM; I had slept less than four hours. I tried to sleep again, but the image of the gun haunted me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep and considered asking the doctor for sleeping pills.

I sat up to check my phone, which showed three missed calls. Could it be Antonio? Nervously, I checked, only to see the caller ID labeled “Mom.” A wave of disappointment washed over me, quickly replaced by anxiety. Why had my mom called so late? Did she know about the incident?

I immediately called her back but hung up, thinking she might still be asleep. I decided to wait until she was awake.

At seven, the nurse took my temperature and checked my wounds. She mentioned I could have breakfast delivered to my room, or go down to the cafeteria.

Hungry, I put on a coat I had borrowed since my previous white dress was blood-stained and torn. After breakfast, I planned to shop for some new clothes once the doctor had checked on me.

The hospital cafeteria offered a generous breakfast. I picked up a sandwich, a stick of Italian sausage, and a fried egg. Forgetting my arm injury, I almost dropped the tray from the pain when I tried to lift it with one hand. A man next to me quickly helped stabilize it.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully as he showed his badge; he was a policeman. "We need your cooperation, Miss Corsetti," he said as he helped me move my breakfast to a corner seat by the window. "You can eat first."

I tried to remain calm as he asked for a coffee. After breakfast, he questioned me, not about Antonio, but as a routine check on a victim of the shooting. I told him I was in Philadelphia for my sister's engagement and was at the park for my thesis project when the attack happened. I portrayed myself as an innocent student caught in the crossfire, and indeed, I was innocent.

The police said they would verify my identity with my school, seemingly believing my story.

"Am I free to go?" I asked after signing the necessary documents he handed me.

“"Very soon," the policeman replied as he handed me his notebook. I quickly scanned it and signed my name. "Thank you. Could you tell me where the nearest mall is? I need a new set of clothes."

Actually, the best option would be to go back to Antonio's hotel where my luggage, clothes, and gifts for my mom were still there.

Once I returned to my room, the attending doctor checked me over and confirmed I had no other issues, allowing me to be discharged. There was a discount store nearby where I could buy the cheapest white T-shirt and jeans, along with a pair of properly fitting Converse sneakers.

Thank God, I was finally out of that hospital gown. In the changing room, I saw the injuries on my face and the corners of my mouth. If my mom saw this, she would be worried.

Now, I needed to figure out how to get back; I didn’t have much cash left.