To that, he nodded.
“Well, unless something is up, feel free not to report back to me or Lorenzo before noon tomorrow,” he said, and it was then that I noticed the smudges under his eyes, his heavy lids. Like he hadn’t been getting much sleep.
Sure, Lorenzo had an excuse for looking as crappy as he had lately, what with a new baby around.
But Emilio could go home if he wanted to so he could get some good sleep.
The fact that he wasn’t getting it was a little troubling.
“There something going on that I should be aware of?” I asked.
“Not yet. But possibly in the near future. We’re still… looking into it,” he said.
To that, I nodded.
“Know it’s not my place, but I’m gonna remind you that you and Lorenzo have a whole Family to lean on here. You don’t have to do all the shit yourself. Not gonna do anyone any favors by running yourselves into the ground.”
“It might not be your place,” Emilio said, giving me a tired smile, “But I appreciate the reminder. We will keep it in mind. Now go make that poor waitress’s load a little lighter,” he said, waving toward the door.
I had to fucking pace myself.
I made myself walk because of the urge to rush, to get there, to grab a table, and to speak to her again.
There was nothing amazing about Dolin’s Diner.
It was the typical brick building with a lot of large windows to look out on the city. There was yellowing linoleum on the floor that matched the tops of the tables. The booths had dark blue vinyl that was ripped in spots.
The booths lined the windows with tables down the center, and then there was a long counter to sit at with stools facing the kitchen window and the coffee station.
Which was where Whitney was standing when I walked in. Wearing the same blue dress with the white apron she’d been wearing the night of the shooting. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy braid, likely because raising her arms to do her hair was probably a chore.
She had on the sling I’d given her. I wasn’t sure if that was because she genuinely still needed it, or if it was an easier way to get patience and sympathy from patrons without having to explain that she was injured over and over.
She’d just pulled a plate down from the window and turned when she spotted me.
And I swear to fuck it felt like someone kicked me in the gut.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Whitney
He was right.
After he left and I finally lowered myself into bed and crashed hard and long, waking up with only an hour to spare before it was time to get back to work again, I felt like absolute garbage.
I mean, no, it didn’t have the same searing, agonizing pain like I’d experienced when I was first shot. But it was pretty horrific in an incessant, aching, burning way.
Each step hurt.
Anytime I tried to move my arm or even turn my head a certain way… hurt.
By the time I finished getting myself ready for work and got some food in my stomach, I was in tears, despite taking two separate types of over-the-counter painkillers.
They may as well have been candy for all they did to touch the pain.
In desperation, I slipped into the sling before heading out the door.
Thankfully, Tommy was not at work when I got there, so I didn’t have to deal with his comments on my injury.