I felt flutters in my stomach as the blue SUV pulled up in front of the Bertoli mansion. Unfortunately for me, the only SUV owned by the Bertolis was a dark blue Chevy Tahoe, the irony of which had escaped nobody over the days since Leonard Frakes had tried to run me off the road.

I'd spent the entire last five days holding to the promise that I'd made to my father and to Tomasso, going to the hospital every day starting at noon to help him through the worst part of the day. The first day, I brought him a book, Seveneves. It was supposed to be good and was one of the books that hadn't looked read in his room. "For the hours I'm not here."

"Thanks," Tomasso replied, thumbing through it. "It was a coming home present from Adriana. In her note, she said after all that cut and dry business study, I needed to let my fantastical side out more."

We spent most of the time just talking, sharing memories about growing up in criminal families. "Like I said, in Brazil, the line between the criminal and what is merely seen as good business is often very thin," I remarked during one of the periods the nurses weren't in the room. Don Bertoli had paid well for a private room, and the staff knew not to interrupt us unless it was necessary. "When you come from a country where even the President is a criminal, and the judges are criminals, that line is very hazy indeed."

Tomasso chuckled. "You and my father should have this discussion. He feels much the same way you do. Me? I do see a clear line between right and wrong, and I plan on following that for my life. If that line is at odds with the law, so be it."

The next day, we'd talked about my family. "Unfortunately, my father is a notorious womanizer," I admitted. "It's why I'm so tall, while my sisters are short, and none of my brothers look alike. It's more accepted in Brazil, I think, but growing up, at least three women I called my aunt were actually mothers to my siblings. My mother met my father when she was a member of the Junior Olympic basketball team back in the nineties. He was in his twenties and she was still in her teens. It was a whirlwind romance, but it's from her that I get my height. And the blonde hair, which is totally natural."

"I never suspected differently," Tomasso said. "Not that I can check if the carpet matches the curtains, with that wax job and all."

I blushed, remembering the heat of our romp. "Well, maybe another time. But Mother may have put up with my father's ways, but she didn't like it. The fourth time it happened, she left, and I stayed with my father in Porto Alegre. My mother got an apartment in Rio, and I would sometimes visit her during breaks from school. She got some boyfriends, not that my father cared. They never officially divorced. They are both Catholics, although the fact that they are both adulterous as hell is something I'm not so sure the archbishop would approve of either."

"So how does that make you feel? I mean, a lot of people would say that it would leave you with some psychological issues," Tomasso joked, but with concern in his voice. "Not that we don't both have enough issues already.”

"I've noticed. But yes, I'd say it has hurt my trust issues with men. That man I told you about, Travis, was the first time I said I was in love."

We fell silent, and Tomasso chewed his cookie. "We're pretty fucked up, you know that?"

"We are."

Now, the evening after Tomasso's surgery, I was waiting for him in the driveway, watching as his friend, Jake, got out of the driver's side. His father had left the city for a meeting in Portland after checking in on his son, leaving Pietro Marconi in charge of Seattle while he was gone. Margaret Bertoli would come back the next day, and by the end of the week, his cousin and her fiancée would be back as well. I was actually looking forward to meeting Adriana Bertoli after spending so much time with her mother. I'd heard so much.

"Do you need any help, Jake?"

The blond surfer-boy shook his head. I'd only talked with him or his father a few times in the time I'd been in Seattle, but they did seem like totally different personality types. "Nah, just gotta help the prince here with his bag. He's on crutches, and doing pretty good about it. They didn't even put him all the way under, so other than a case of numb toes, he's one hundred percent."

The passenger door opened, and Tomasso got out, his foot in a new black and foam boot. "Do you need help?"

He shook his head. "No, but it's good to see you. Actually, can you get the door? Steps and these crutches I can handle. The door too? Nah, I'll pass."

I held the door for him while he carefully made his way inside, Jake following behind us. Jake took his bags upstairs while we went toward the downstairs study in the family wing. Tomasso was rock-solid as he made his way to a leather club chair and pivoted around, sitting down and propping his leg up. "So what do you think?"

I looked at the brace and nodded. "It is much more high-tech than the air splint, that's for sure. Still immobilized though?"

He nodded. "They put in two pins and reattached some tendons that got ripped up pretty good. They claim that the surgery is going to reduce the amount of time until I can put weight on it. The docs said I can start crutch walking in two weeks, and then in the brace alone in about a month. That's when the rehab starts, which is going to be the real bitch of the whole thing. As much as this thing hurts, I'm going to be driving automatic and foregoing the stick shift for a while."

"Does your family even own a car with automatic transmission?" I joked in reply. I went over to the small wet bar and poured him a scotch and soda, stirring it before putting it on the rocks. "Here. Better than the Tylenol I’m sure they sent you home with."

"Actually, they gave me a scrip for Oxycontin," Tomasso said, "but I'm not planning on taking any. I've seen too many Mafia men get a monkey on their back and not be able to get that fucker off. A drink every now and then, sure. But I'm not going to get drunk, and I'm not going to take pain pills like that. If I have to, I'll go study some new age biofeedback shit or something."

I chuckled and poured myself a glass of club soda before sitting down. "You know, I actually missed our little chat today. You may be a terrible driver, but you're a helpful amateur therapist. I've never felt better about my background and family than after the past few days. Thank you."

"It's easy to feel better about things when you meet someone even crazier than you are," Tomasso said with a laugh before growing serious. "Which is why I need your help."

"What for?" I asked, thinking perhaps he needed a snack or a pillow or something like that. "Hungry?"

Tomasso shook his head and pointed to the door. "Can you close that, please?" I did and came back, taking my seat. "Thanks. Luisa, I need your help finding out who tried to sell you out to Frakes."

"What do you mean?" I asked, slightly confused.

“He never got your name, and I'm not a famous face in town. Famous name, sure, in the right circles, but even then, my father is more famous than I am. So how in the hell did Frakes know that you were out on the road, in a Bertoli-owned vehicle, at the time he did? I've been thinking about it."

I nodded, his words sparking my interest. If the leak had been the police, then knowing I was staying with the Bertolis was one thing. But the driveway is far from the street, and the view is blocked. Only someone who saw me get in the vehicle would have known it was me. "You suspect someone on the inside."

He nodded. "I do. Someone who was here at the time you left that morning contacted Frakes and told him to follow that car. Hell, it's not even yours—it was Angelo's! By the way, don't worry about that. I spoke with Angelo over the phone, and he said he wanted a new one anyway when he gets back for winter break."

"Gee, thanks," I joked, then sobered. "Why not approach your father about this? Or Pietro?"

Tomasso sighed and looked down. "Because Pietro was one of the men here that morning. And while my father wasn't, that doesn't mean that he couldn’t have ordered Pietro to sell you out. I wouldn't know why. It doesn't make business sense, but I can't rule either of them out either. I can trust two people with this idea. You . . . and me."

I wasn't as shocked as you may think. After all, crime families are just that, criminal. We betray the law on a regular basis, and while honor is a major point and a part of the very glue that holds us together, that doesn't mean that you turn your back on anyone without knowing what they had in their hands at the time. “So you want to find this person. Why?"

Tomasso thought before answering. "Because my only thought once that van side-swiped you and until I saw you standing in the doorway of my room at the hospital . . . the only thought I really had was if you were okay. Someone tried to hurt you, and they tried to make me look like an incompetent idiot. That doesn't sit well with me."

It wasn't Shakespeare, but there was a sense of romance to what he said. I stood up and went over to his chair, leaning down and kissing him gently on the lips. “I’ll be happy to help," I whispered, stroking his face. "But you promise me something."

"What?" he whispered back, his face open and honest.

“That you don’t risk your life over it.”