CHAPTER 24
Antonio and Ruggero saw the Maserati swerve onto the shoulder, the signora holding up a hand stained red, their capo speaking to her urgently. Ruggero pulled over in front of them, doing his best to shield the convertible with the big black Mercedes. Antonio jumped out and Ruggero ran around the back of the car, then crouched down beside Antonio next to the front passenger fender with his gun drawn. Antonio saw a muzzle flash from the hills above, then heard the report of a rifle echoing around them. “Fucking Andrettis,” Ruggero muttered.
Antonio turned to look at the Maserati, to see what was happening inside. Don Lucchesi was leaning over the signora, pressing a hand to her chest. A bullet sliced through the windshield, hitting him in the ribs below his left arm. Antonio watched in horror as his capo arched in pain, losing his hold on the signora.
Antonio bolted for the car, panic flooding him despite his training. “Don Lucchesi!” he shouted, opening the driver’s side door. He threw his body over his capo’s, protecting him as he inspected the wound. “Can you breathe?”
“I’ll be okay.” Don Lucchesi turned to him, his face taut with pain, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Get us out of the car. Kate first.”
Antonio pushed his capo down on the seat, flattening him over the signora, then he ran around the back of the car and opened her door. He dragged her out of the car and laid her on the ground beside it, sheltering her from the shooters. Don Lucchesi crawled out after them, kneeling on the ground next to her. He placed his hand over her wound again, pressing down. “What about you?” she asked, looking up at him.
“It is you I worry about.”
“Why?” she asked.
But Antonio already knew. The patch of blood on her chest had expanded enormously in the short time it had taken to move her. The don tore off his shirt and wadded it up, pressing the ball of it into her chest. He looked at Antonio, who’d crouched down beside him. “Your jacket. She needs to stay warm.”
“Sì.” Antonio ripped off his jacket and covered the signora with it. He pulled his mobile phone out, calling Don Domenico for help. Don Domenico said he’d send the polizia; it would take too long for enough of their own men to arrive.
Antonio ended the call and cursed. They were on their own, for God knew how long. Blood welled down his capo’s side, so he shrugged out of his shoulder holster and pulled off his shirt, urging Don Lucchesi to hold it against his own wound. Then he took a deep breath and rejoined Ruggero at the Mercedes. He needed to focus, needed to help Ruggero defend them.
There were two shooters above them, positioned on each side where the highway cut through the mountains, the perfect spot for an ambush. Bullets rained down around them, mostly hitting the Mercedes and the Maserati, but some whizzed into the dirt right beside them. Ruggero’s shoulder was grazed when he popped up to get a better angle on the shooters, but their handguns were poor threats against the rifles. Ruggero nudged Antonio, and the two of them scrambled to the back of the Mercedes. The more serious hardware was in the boot. Ruggero pulled out two mini Uzis and a large black duffle bag. He tossed an Uzi to Antonio, just as he took a bullet in the left calf. Cursing, Ruggero looked at the wound, then tested out the leg as they scrambled back to better cover.
“How bad?” Antonio shouted at him.
Ruggero grinned and shook his head. “A scratch.” He turned his attention back to the shooters above them, switching the Uzi to full automatic, and spraying the left hillside above. Antonio followed suit and took the right side, willing his bullets to find their targets. He wanted these men dead. Per favore, Dio, let Don Lucchesi and the signora live.
They kept up a steady barrage of gunfire, pausing only to slam in new clips. Antonio was thankful Ruggero had done the packing; there was enough ammunition in the bag for an army. He made a mental note to never under-pack when it came to firepower.
The sing-song wail of sirens finally reached their ears, and Antonio and Ruggero ceased their fire and waited. There were one or two more shots from above, then no more. The men in the hills apparently wanted to avoid the polizia more than they wanted to finish the job. Antonio cursed again; he wanted those cowards dead.
Ruggero jerked the gun out of his hand and stashed the Uzis in the boot right before the ambulance and police cars pulled up. Antonio kicked their sidearms under the Mercedes. Then the two of them held their hands up in the air, waiting for the officers and medics to approach. It wouldn’t do to get killed now. Who would protect Don Lucchesi then?
The eruption of gunfire from Antonio and Ruggero sounded like World War III to Kate. Enrico crouched down over her, molding his body to hers. She jerked at the roar of the guns, the noise thundering in her chest, then she wrapped her free arm around him, pressing her fingers against his wound. The pressure made him flinch, but he didn’t cry out. He looked down at her. “We will survive this.”
“I know.” She fought to keep her voice steady. She looked up at him, her shock at learning his identity still in her mind. Don Lucchesi. That’s what Antonio had called him. Vince hadn’t been lying. But Enrico had, and yes, it was a doozy. Had he kept anything else from her?
The gunfire abruptly stopped, then she heard the sound of emergency sirens, then men approaching, their voices hard and demanding as they spoke to Antonio and Ruggero. Moments later, a confusing swirl of people descended on them, and Kate panicked, her heart rate surging when Enrico’s weight was lifted from her. When the medics tried to separate them, she clutched at Enrico’s hand, a weak protest leaving her mouth. She was shocked at how frail she sounded, at how difficult it was to close her fingers around his hand. He squeezed her fingers before turning to the medics and firing off a string of rapid Italian. She couldn’t follow every word, but she knew he’d said she’d lost a lot of blood. And he insisted they treat her first.
As the medics labored over her, she found herself relaxing in the midst of the frenzy. It was going to be okay; the ambulance was here. She wasn’t going to die in the dirt on this roadside. She looked at Enrico for confirmation, trying to give him a smile through the oxygen mask she wore. But when she saw him wince hard with pain and struggle to take a breath, a frightened bird beat its wings in her chest. She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t return the pressure. He dropped hers instead, his hand flailing at his chest. He wheezed out some words to the medics, then two of them left her and started working on him.
“What’s wrong with him?” she cried.
“Puntura del polmone,” the medic said. Lung puncture. He moved into her line of sight, cutting off her view of Enrico. “No worry, signora.”
The medics wheeled her away on a gurney, while the others were working on Enrico. She couldn’t see what they were doing, if Enrico was all right. She got a glimpse of his face, his eyes closed, his skin gray. She didn’t want to leave him, and when she struggled against it, one of the medics gave her an injection. Warmth shot through her veins, then she was drifting, her sight crumbling at the edges.
There was something she needed to do, something she needed to know, but the urgency and what it was quickly faded. The ambulance doors slammed, the siren wailed, and the gravel crunched beneath the tires. And then Kate’s world fell silent.
Enrico woke up in a hospital room, Antonio slumped asleep in the chair next to him. In place of the shirt and jacket he’d given up, Antonio wore a light blue surgical scrub top, the trousers of his dark blue suit dusty and bloody, the knees torn from scrambling about in the rocks next to the cars.
Enrico tried to talk, but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t get much above a whisper. He coughed to get Antonio’s attention, then wished he hadn’t. It felt like someone was shoving an ice pick in his left side, and he barked out a curse. Antonio woke up then, his eyes wide. “Signore?”
“Acqua, per favore.”
Antonio poured him a glass and handed it to him. Enrico was surprised it took an effort to raise the plastic cup to his lips. The water was room temperature and flat, but it felt good and he downed the whole glass. And then he remembered.
“Kate, how is she?”
Antonio smiled. “She’s going to be fine. They got the bullet and stopped the bleeding.”
“Grazie a Dio,” Enrico said. Then he remembered something else. She knew. She knew who he was. Before he’d had a chance to tell her himself, to explain.
“I have to see her.” When he tried to sit up, pain sliced through his torso. He cursed again, then lay back, panting, but even that hurt. Any movement involving his rib cage hurt. Horribly. He tried again, moving in the tiniest of increments, and found he could manage to get upright that way. Antonio restrained him with a hand to the chest.
“I’m sorry, signore, but you can’t get out of bed. Your lung was punctured.”
Enrico glared up at Antonio, but knew he was right. His next thought was his first practical one. “How many guards do we have here?”
“Ruggero’s with the signora, and there are two other guards outside each room. We also have a man at each exit and entrance to the floor. You’re safe.”
“Not if they really want to finish the job.”
“The carabinieri have their men here as well.”
That earned a smirk from Enrico. “Maggiore Alfonso must want to keep my contributions to the policeman’s fund.”
“He’s a smart man.”
“What have they been told?”
“Only that someone was shooting at us. We didn’t speculate about who it was, though of course Fuente asked if it was Andretti.”
“And what did you say?”
“I shrugged. What else could I do?” He paused, then looked away from Enrico. “I’m not sure it was Andretti.”
“What do you mean?”
“How would he know where we were at that exact moment? How could anyone know?”
“Maybe we were followed.” Antonio shook his head. “Then what?”
Antonio rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping across blond stubble. “There are two possibilities. One, Ruggero or I somehow signaled the shooters. Of course, we’d have to do it without the other one knowing. You should check our phone calls and text messages to verify. Two, someone planted a GPS tracker on one or both of the cars.”
“Have you searched the cars?”
“No. The polizia have them. And I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were all right.”
Enrico looked at the ceiling. Could this possibly be Franco Trucco’s work? “Can you get Ruggero for me?”
Antonio was nearly to the door when Enrico stopped him. “Don’t tell anyone about this. We don’t want to alert the traitor.”
“I understand, signore.”
While Antonio was gone, Enrico struggled upright again. He had to get out of this damn bed and see Kate. He had to know whether she hated him.
He turned himself to one side, easing his legs off the mattress and over the edge of the hospital bed. He was clutching the metal frame, his lips pressed tight together, when Ruggero limped in. “What do you need, signore?” Ruggero asked, hurrying to his side. “Lie down,” he added, when Enrico didn’t answer.
“How’s your leg?” He held himself upright with trembling arms.
“Fine. The bullet passed through.” Ruggero grabbed hold of Enrico’s arms. “You must lie down, signore.”
He did his best to fight Ruggero, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He could barely stay up. “I need to see Kate.”
Ruggero’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “The signora is fine.”
“She knows. She knows who I am.”
Ruggero sighed, the breath gusting out of him wearily. “She’s asked me twice why you lied to her.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. She asked for Antonio, but I’ve kept them apart.”
“Mille grazie.”
“It’s your place to tell her, not ours.” When he tried to stand up again, Ruggero frowned. “You must stay in bed.”
Enrico ignored him and pressed forward. When he met resistance, he mustered up his sternest glare. “I am your capo still, am I not?” There was a pause, then Ruggero’s grip shifted to one of assistance rather than restraint. Enrico started to lower himself onto his feet when a sharp rap on the half-open door caught their attention.
A tall, thin, dark-haired man in a white coat and glasses stood there with Enrico’s medical chart in his hand. It was Enrico’s personal physician, Dottor Beltrami. He looked at Enrico and shook his head. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to see Kate.”
“I must tell you something about her condition. She didn’t want you to know. I think you should.”
Panic sliced through Enrico. “Tell me.”
“She’s pregnant.”
Enrico’s brows shot up. Pregnant? Was the baby his? He remembered her hesitation that first time, the fact that they hadn’t used condoms the first night. She said she’d been on birth control pills before then. The child had to be his.
Warmth spread through him. He was going to be a father in truth, not just in name, after all this time. He smiled at Ruggero and Beltrami. “I assume the child is all right?”
“We believe so. She doesn’t show any signs of a miscarriage. The hospital is of course keeping a close watch on her.”
“I have to see her.” Enrico gingerly slid off the bed. He tried to take a step and wobbled. Ruggero grabbed his arm to steady him.
“You aren’t supposed to be on your feet. You’re still heavily medicated, and you could tear your stitches if you move around too much,” Beltrami said.
Enrico growled in frustration. He wasn’t sure he could cross the floor of his own room, much less make it to hers. “Wheelchair, then?”
Beltrami sighed. “You won’t listen, will you?”
“No.”
“I’ll get a nurse. Sit down.”
Ruggero helped him to the chair beside the bed. Enrico turned to him and whispered. “Antonio thinks a GPS tracker was used on the cars.”
“It’s possible.”
“Find out if that’s the case and who planted it. If it’s Trucco, he needs to be dealt with, immediately.”
The guard nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
A nurse came in with a wheelchair, followed by Beltrami. She frowned at Enrico and at the doctor, but helped him into the chair. They started down the hallway, IV stand in tow, and Enrico thought about Kate and the baby. She didn’t want him to know about the pregnancy. Which could mean only one thing: she hated him, and she intended to leave him. Maybe she even meant to abort the child.
His gut cramped and a shudder racked his body. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to persuade her to forgive him. Or at least to spare their child. If needed, he would raise it on his own. He would do whatever it took to keep his child safe.
When he got the reports from his men, Carlo cursed God for denying him yet again. Enrico Lucchesi was like the proverbial cockroach: damned difficult to kill.
Carlo relished the image of stomping on Lucchesi. How he’d love to see him dead. But so far that had not come to pass, despite Domenico’s assistance.
Even worse, Franco Trucco had come to see him the day before. And what he’d told Carlo made him burn even hotter.
Lucchesi had lied all along. He had sullied his marriage to Toni before it had even begun. Thank God his daughter had been spared the humiliation.
But her honor would be avenged. It was the least he could do to make up for marrying her to a Lucchesi, for consigning her to life as a housewife, when she should have been his heir, when she should have been running the Andretti cosca instead. If only he hadn’t given in to her pleas to save her twin…. But what was done was done. All he had left to give her was vengeance.
What was the best way to draw out Lucchesi’s suffering? Killing him was not enough anymore. He wanted to pummel Lucchesi, to strip him of everything before he died.
Before the last day of his life, Lucchesi would lose the ones he loved. Perhaps the bastard son first? The boy might be Lucchesi’s blood, but the two must be estranged if the son worked for Interpol. Losing a son he wasn’t close to? Not a good first blow.
No, the first blow would be Rinaldo’s death, and Carlo would make it painful. Trucco had made clear that Rinaldo was aware of Enrico’s bastard, that he’d started making the payments to keep Enrico’s secret. Rinaldo had known the marriage and the truce were founded on a lie.
What if Rinaldo lost a finger or two before he died? That would be the perfect payback. Anger still gripped Carlo whenever he noted Dario’s missing finger, the void a constant reminder of when Rinaldo thought he’d had the upper hand.
Oh yes. Carlo smiled to himself. He’d enjoy wrapping Rinaldo’s fingers up in a box and sending them to Lucchesi.
And then… then it would be time to get more direct. To rob Lucchesi of what he loved most. The woman. She was the key to his suffering. Lucchesi would do anything for the American. She too would learn the meaning of pain. But not before they’d had some fun together. He’d earned a little indulgence.
The boy would be the final blow. The final nail in the coffin, the end of Rinaldo and Enrico Lucchesi’s line. The ultimate grind of his heel before Carlo finished Enrico himself.
But before all that, Carlo would have his day in court. Benedetto had agreed to his petition to hear his case against Lucchesi before La Provincia. Lucchesi would squirm then, the little cockroach, and Carlo would enjoy making him crawl before all of La Provincia. Maybe he would even finally overcome his exile and earn a seat on the council.
Best of all, Lucchesi would have no idea that the pain was just starting. That all of this had merely been the appetizer before the main course.
Carlo picked up the phone and placed two calls. One to Domenico, the other to his favorite member of the carabinieri.