I was confused at first as Luisa and I went tumbling to the ground, the roar of the explosion making my ears ring. I felt something ding off my forehead, but it was a sharp sting more than anything else, and it was over before I even felt it. I was hurt more when Luisa landed on top of me, driving the breath out of my lungs. Rolling to the side, I eased her off me, blinking.

Black smoke roiled out of the door we'd just been trying to go through, and I felt my head ringing. I couldn't hear much of anything, and so I looked at her, trying to figure out what was going on. "Luisa? Luisa?"

She didn't move, and I noticed that she was bleeding from somewhere on her head. Adrenaline flooded my system as I got to my knees and checked her. She was breathing, but I couldn't hear anything when I put my ear to her chest, until I remembered that whatever the blast had been, it had certainly fucked with my hearing. Remembering the little bit I'd learned in a first-aid class, I checked her pulse on her neck and found it strong and sure. The blood was still pooling under her head, but she turned her head and groaned, which at least told me she didn't have a broken neck. "Luisa?"

She mumbled something incoherently in Portuguese, and even though I know Spanish and Italian, which are cousin languages to Portuguese, I couldn't make out the words. Looking around, I knew that whatever caused the explosion, it wasn't the place that a Bertoli or a woman who was part of a Brazilian crime family should be found when the police arrived.

Picking Luisa up in my arms, I carried her to my car and carefully placed her in the passenger seat. I ran around and got into the driver's seat, cranking my engine and hauling ass. I tried not to speed once we were more than a few blocks away, and I intentionally slowed down to avoid notice from the cops. It was bad enough that I was certain that I was on security cameras and that I was driving a black Alfa-Romeo 4c. Those things don't exactly blend in like a Ford Fiesta or a Toyota Prius.

My hearing slowly returned as I drove home, and I realized about halfway there that my phone was ringing. I pulled over into a gas station and pulled out my phone, seeing that the call was from Pietro. "Pietro?"

"There was an explosion at the civic center. Your father wanted to know if you’re okay.” As typical for Pietro, he was all business, though there was still a touch of concern in his voice.

I wiped at the cut on my head and saw that while there was some blood, I'd more or less gotten off scott-free. "I'm fine, but Luisa was knocked out. We were near the door when the blast occurred. We’re on our way home now.”

There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the line, and I heard the phone being passed over to someone. "Tomasso?"

"Dad," I replied, smiling at the worry in my father's voice. "I'm fine. But I'm bringing Luisa back to the house. She took a hit to the head. She's going to need stitches, most likely."

“I’ll have a doctor ready when you get here. Are you sure you’re okay, Tomasso?”

“We can have the doctor take a look at my ear, but it’s nothing serious. It’s ringing some, but I'm okay, Dad. I'll be home in fifteen minutes."

The whole time, Luisa groaned and muttered under her breath, and I reached over, taking her hand. "You'll be okay,” I promised, then repeated myself in Spanish. "I'll take care of you."

Dad was true to his word. Our doctor met me in the driveway of the house as soon as I pulled up, along with Pietro and Roberto, one of Dad's other younger enforcers. "Take her to the gym,” the doctor said to Pietro. "Lay her on the massage table. I can treat her there."

Pietro and Roberto carried Luisa between them while the doctor looked me over. “Not even back in town a month and already getting yourself hurt. Let me take a look."

I bent my head, and he dabbed at the cut on my forehead with an alcohol wipe. “It looks like you might have a little more character to that baby face of yours," the doctor, who had always been irascible with me in a sort of grumpy geezer sort of way, said. “Whatever hit you, it went all the way to the bone. It’s deep, but just a bandage will do."

"I got lucky," I said, wincing when the doctor applied a liquid onto the cut. It smelled bad, and not in the alcohol sense either—it was something else. "What the hell is that?”

"Surgical adhesive. Stings like hell, but it'll keep the wound closed. I think you can put your own Band-Aid on the cut. Now let me see how the young lady is doing.”

I watched the doctor hurry inside, and I saw Dad come out. His face was written with concern, and I shook my head. "I'm fine."

He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder. "And the ear?"

"Doc can check that out later. Come on, let’s see what he says about Luisa."

He shook his head and pointed to his office. "Right now, we’re going to try to find out who’s responsible with for this. Miss Mendosa is being looked after—there’s nothing we can do but get in the way.”

I swallowed my reply, knowing he was right. "Okay."

The first thing I did when we got to Dad's office was start telling him the story of walking back to the convention center from the coffee shop, stopping and repeating myself carefully when I started to ramble around the time of the explosion itself. "So this man—you didn’t get a good look at him?" He asked.

"I didn't, but Luisa probably did," I replied. "They were practically nose to nose there for a few moments. I tumbled when he hit me, so by the time I was back up, he was already running away. I didn't chase him because she was still down. Then the bomb went off, and things got a little crazy.”

He nodded knowingly, then went over to his liquor cabinet and poured me a finger of scotch whiskey into a crystal tumbler. "Here. Sip slowly. I know the doctor won’t approve, but sometimes, men of science and men of reality have different points of view."

I took it thankfully, sipping slowly. As the scotch burned its way down my throat, I focused on not coughing, letting my nerves settle down. "When I could think again, I checked on Luisa and decided I had to get us both out of there. Bertolis and explosions aren’t the sort of thing that we need to have in the same sentence."

Dad nodded and poured his own, taking a seat behind his desk. "I agree. You did well. It was the smart thing to do."

"I should have done more," I said disapprovingly. "I'm not just one of your men. I'm also your son."

"You’re not Superman, despite trying to look the part by spending so much time in the gym,” Dad said with a chuckle.

He turned on the small television he kept in his office, turning it to the local CBS affiliate. A special news report was already showing, with fire trucks and police gathered outside the convention center. We watched as the reporter, a guy who'd been with the station since I was in high school, described the scene. "The reports are preliminary, but from what I can gather, the bomb was placed in a trash can near the north entrance of the building, where attendees were coming back after a lunch break. Interior security cameras show this man placing a package in the garbage can closest to the entry hallway before running out. Unfortunately, the only camera footage released so far shows no details about his identity, although a group has come forward to claim responsibility for the attack."

The camera shot cut back to a prepackaged video, supposedly uploaded to the station soon after the attack. The screen showed a hooded figure wearing a black mask, with a giant Earth emblazoned on a backdrop behind him. "The Gaea Defense Force takes full responsibility for this defense of our planet and mother. Those who were injured today were nothing more than viruses, bacteria who are polluting and raping our mother. Like any good child, we defend our mother. Stop the slaughter of cattle, stop the pollution of our Earth. This is the GDF. We will not back down. We will not let up."

The video continued, but the reporter's voice took over. Dad and I watched it for a few more minutes, but there was nothing more that came out. He reached up and shut off the television. “I’ve had dealings with those types before at the restaurant," Dad said, sighing as he leaned back. "They're relatively new in town—an offshoot of the environmental movement."

I sighed, finishing my scotch. “Why are they so violent?"

"They've gotten some new people involved, it seems," Dad said. “They’re probably just trying to get noticed. I think they know enough to not screw with our family, though. As for Miss Mendosa, I can’t say for certain."

"We were still lucky," I said, looking out the window. I laughed bitterly and set my tumbler down. "A few seconds later, and I would for sure not need that damn Creatine I bought today."

He finished his glass and nodded. “I’m glad that you’re mostly unhurt. Come, let’s see how Miss Mendosa is doing and then call the lawyer just in case you two were spotted on any cameras."

As always, my father had a point. "All right. Thanks for the drink."

We left his office to go down to the gym, where we found the doctor still with Luisa, who'd woken up in the time she was on the table. He was checking her eyes with his penlight and looking carefully. "Well, I don't think you have a concussion, Miss Mendosa, but I'd still be careful for a while. That laceration on the back of your scalp was pretty nasty. I had to put in thirty stitches."

She nodded slowly, laying still. "How long will they be in?"

"I'd say you can have them taken out in a week. If you're still in town, I'd be happy to do it," he said, putting his light away. He turned to see Dad and me walk into the room, and he smiled. “Other than a ruined suit and a nasty little scalp laceration, I'd say she’s okay.” He turned to me. “How's the ear, Tomasso?"

"I can hear now," I said, turning to the side while the man got his little device out of his bag and checked me out. "Guess that one just took more of a blast than the other."

"That, and you need to clean your ears out better," the doctor grumped, and Luisa chuckled on the massage table. The doctor smirked and gave me a wink. "No, seriously, you're okay. I'm sure you're a busy man, so I’m going to get out of your way.”

He left, leaving Dad, Luisa and myself in the room. I looked down at Luisa, whose suit was pretty trashed. “Thanks for having me seen to, Don Bertoli."

He shook his head and came over, putting his hand on Luisa's shoulder when she struggled to get up. "It was nothing, Miss Mendosa. After you recover some, we should contact your father. The man who ran you over is a member of a radical eco-terrorist organization, and while I doubt you were specifically targeted, we should get you protected just in case. What do you remember about him?"

"His eyes and the scar on his face," Luisa said, before describing what she’d seen. "I'm sure that makes him stand out quite a bit."

"For sure, but first, we should talk to our lawyer. No offense, but for families in our line of work, a talk with the police isn’t always the smartest thing. Or at least, an unchaperoned talk."

Luisa smiled and slowly sat up, revealing the large mass of stained hair from where the blood had soaked in. "I understand. This isn’t Brazil, where the Porto Alegre chief of police is a cousin of mine, bought and paid for. Your Seattle police are probably a bit more honest than mine."

"They aren't family," Dad acknowledged. “That’s all that matters. But come. First, let’s get you a shower—you look like hell. My niece still has some clothes here. Maybe you can wear some of her things while I send someone to your hotel to get your things."

"Don Bertoli, I don't think that would be necessary," Luisa protested, stopping when Dad held up his hand.

“You could be in danger. Until we know for sure you weren’t the target, I insist that you stay under my protection for the rest of your stay in Seattle. My son will be responsible for your immediate safety."

Dad turned and walked out of the gym, leaving behind an obviously pissed off Luisa, who stared at the door before looking at me. "Well?"

"He's a stubborn man," I explained simply, refusing to be baited into an argument to let off her anger. "Come on. The gym has a shower, and you've got a lot of blood in your hair. Doc didn't say anything about you washing up some, but speaking from experience, be careful with the scrubbing. Angelo's got a scar on the back of his head from a bike accident when we were kids, and he ripped the sutures open by accident washing his hair afterward."

"And clothes?" Luisa asked, looking at her suit. "Should I just wear this nasty mess?"

"You didn't listen very well, did you?" I said with a smirk. "He said Adriana left some things here for when she visits. She's shorter than you, but she always did like longer t-shirts for when she was painting. I'll get you some shorts too, if that's okay."

Luisa growled, but nodded. "Can you show me to the shower, at least?"

"Sure," I replied with a chuckle. I showed her the small locker room, which was normally used by the staff members who didn't live in the mansion but still wanted to use the room. "From what I remember, the water pressure's not too strong, but be careful still."

"Can you leave me alone long enough to risk showering alone, or will these terrorists come charging in while you’re fetching a t-shirt?"

I couldn't help it. Luisa was both cute and funny when she was pissed off. I laughed. "I think you can shower perfectly fine by yourself. Unless, of course, you want some company. I can help with that too. Like Dad said at dinner before, I’m a man of many talents.”

"I doubt it," Luisa hissed back, closing the curtain to the changing area. I left and headed up to Adriana’s room, where I found one of her old painting t-shirts and some basketball shorts folded in her drawers. Taking them down, I left them for Luisa, pausing to marvel at the silhouette that was barely visible against the shower curtain. Despite her bitchiness and her obvious distaste for when I was trying to be smooth, she was certainly beautiful, and I knew that I was attracted to her. I'd be a fool not to be.

"Here are your clothes," I said loudly enough to make sure I was heard. "I'll set them on the stool."

She didn't reply, and I shrugged, figuring that she was still pissed about my father's decision. I turned to go when I heard her turn the water off, and her voice was soft in the sudden silence. "Tomasso?"

"Yes, Luisa? Need something?”

"No," she said quietly, unlike her. "Just . . . thank you. I know you were trying to take care of me. Thank you."