The disgust.
The terror.
The worry.
The pain.
All of it.
I don't know how long we were in that elevator, how many people we inconvenienced when Lucky wouldn't let anyone else on, but by the time I finally pulled away, my face felt swollen, my skin burning from the salt of my tears.
"Come on," he said, leading me out of the elevator on the emergency room floor once again, giving a nod to Bishop as he led me out the doors.
This area was familiar.
It was where I had hung out that night I ran away from Lucky and Matteo and the whole of their family.
It was the place Luca had come to pick me up, take me home, welcome me into his life, start to build something with me.
"Luca's tough, Romy," he reminded me as we walked up to the railing looking over the water.
I could see Luca's apartment building across the water. And my heart crushed to dust in my chest at the idea of him never going there again, never making his coffee way too early in the morning, never going through the process of getting dressed, never pulling me to his chest in bed.
"He was shot a lot, Lucky," I told him, feeling tears spring to my eyes again, but they didn't break free.
"I know he was. But he's strong. And you protected him. And you kept the pressure on. He's going to be alright."
"You don't know that," I insisted.
"No," he admitted, shaking his head. "But I have to believe it. And you do too."
"I can't stop picturing it," I admitted.
"It's traumatizing to shoot someone," he agreed, speaking from experience.
"No," I said, shaking my head. I hadn't even thought about that since leaving the scene. "I mean when he passed out. I saw the light kind of go out of his eyes right before."
"No, Romy. You didn't. If the light went out, he would have been dead when they brought him in. He wasn't. His vitals were pretty strong, considering. They just need to get the bullets out. And repair the damage. And then he will be in recovery for a while. And then they will move him onto a normal floor where you can visit him."
"Oh, somebody is going to make sure I can visit him before then." I told him, chin lifting.
"Well," he said, giving me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I guess we owe you that," he agreed. "Are you okay? How's your arm? It looks gnarly."
"Twelve stitches. It was a graze. I'm fine. I don't feel anything."
'Yet," he told me. "You're still in shock. And worried about Luca. Once you know he's okay, it is going to hurt like a motherfucker."
"Speaking from experience?"
'Yes."
Eventually, we moved to a park bench, sitting there for hours, watching the sun start to lace its fingers across the sky, Lucky getting the occasional update of the He's still in surgery variety.
Around five a.m., Bishop came by, handing us each coffee before walking away again.
"Is he just going to be here now? Until Luca gets up?"
"Likely for a while after too. When Uncle Ant brings in Blake, he is a fixture until he is sure the whole thing is over."