Page 85 of Mafia Kings & Wedding Rings 2: The Finale
“What! That’s like the whole summer!”
“I’m sorry. You have to heal though.” Dr. York’s head tilted in empathy.
My daughter’s head slipped against the pillow behind her, and she looked like she wanted to cry. Slowly bringing myself to my feet, I turned to the doctor.
“Is there anything else she needs?”
“After surgery, she will need physical therapy until she is able to have full use of her leg again. We recommend two to three sessions per week with a licensed therapist. Our psych team would also like to set up a session with her.”
“Psych team? Like a mental therapist?” I queried, glancing at Cambrie on the opposite side as she stood and faced me.
“Yes. Considering Tavi ran away, they just want to evaluate her.”
“Evaluate? For what?” I sneered.
“Staten, calm down, baby. This is routine,” Cambrie assured me. “It’ll be fine. I think it’ll also be good for her. To talk through her feelings with someone. Listen, I can even do the physical therapy if you want. I’m still licensed.”
“Is that so?” Dr. York peered at her over the rim of her glasses.
“Yes. It’s only been a few months since the clinic I worked for closed, but I have a résumé and my certifications and everything.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. I think it would be good for her to have someone she knows rooting for her. The nurses will come in and prep you for surgery tomorrow, so tonight I just want you to try and rest. If you’re in any kind of pain, just press the button on the remote beside your bed, and the nurse will come in. Do you have any more questions?” Dr. York peered around at us.
“No.” I waved her off, still spiraling about this therapy shit.
Physical, I got, but I didn’t like the stigma being placed on Tavi that something might be wrong with her. Like she knew something was on my mind, Cambrie rounded the foot of the bed and wrapped her arms around my waist.
“Hey, this is all good, Staten. Therapy isn’t a bad thing, and it doesn’t mean that something is wrong with her. Trust me. I’ve talked to a lot of kids and helped them. Some of them come in there defiant and not wanting to talk to anyone at first. They shut down or get defensive, but over time, they figure out how to communicate and open up. Just . . . give it a chance.” She ran her hand across my chest and lifted both brows.
“Aight, but the minute she says she don’t want to do that shit, she doesn’t have to.”
Tavi’s door swung open, but this time, my other three kids came rushing inside. Rossi and Marcella weren’t far behind, and I couldn’t help but sigh in frustration because I’d told them to stay put. My mother immediately saw the irritation on my face.
“Don’t give me that look. You knew I wasn’t going to listen,” she quipped. “How is she?”
“She’s stable,” Cambrie answered.
“Well, since you went and got yourself hurt, I guess that should be your lesson learned in all this. I was going to whup your behind myself when we found you, but I am glad you’re OK.” Rossi’s gaze softened on her granddaughter before focusing on me. “Ivo is in surgery, but the doctors believe he will be fine. The bullet didn’t pierce any major arteries, and itwent straight through. Brick is asking for you though. They are downstairs on five. I’ll sit here with her for a minute until you get back.”
“Yeah, we’ll keep little Miss Thing company,” Marcella interjected as she stepped past my mother and set her Hermes tote on a nearby counter.
“Come on. Let’s go check on Ivo and Emerald.” Cambrie nudged me to the door but pivoted briefly to face Tavi. “We’ll be back. Get some rest.”
“Can we watch TV?” Piaget and Rogue hopped on the bed with Tavi while Saga lingered at her side with his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. They all seemed to be relieved more than anything that their sister was OK. Minutes later, Cam and I arrived downstairs, where we found Six and Brick seated in the waiting room and Emerald wearing a hole in the floor, much like I was not long ago.
“Hey!” Six leaned forward. “How’s Tavi?”
“She’s fine. Surgery in the morning for her leg, but she’s going to be OK,” I told them.
“Thank God.” Six sighed and leaned back in her chair.
“Brick, what you got?” I questioned, approaching my brother as he studied his phone screen with a disturbed expression. He swiped his beard before looking up at me. Before he could respond, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open and out stepped a team of doctors and nurses chatting lowly among one another. An older white man with white hair and a full beard removed his scrub coat while approaching.
“Are you the family of Ivo Marek?”
“Yes.” Brick nodded. “How is he?”
“Stable. Everything went well. He’ll be in recovery soon, and he was already coming out of it when we closed him up,” the doctor informed us.
