Automatic doors opened in front of Gian, but they weren’t spreading fast enough for his brisk pace or patience. His hands slammed against the doors, pushing against the pressure of the mechanical arm to force them open faster.
His heart was in his fucking throat.
His stomach had fallen to his feet.
Time had become unimportant for the moment.
Gian couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way—so fucked up in the head, an anxious mess, but still damn cold and calm on the outside.
Corrado used to tell him that this was when Gian was most dangerous. That Gian’s emotions often ruled him in his choices and behaviors, but it was only when he didn’t allow others the gift of seeing his emotions to gauge their transgressions, that it became dangerous. Because he became unstable, and unpredictable.
His grandfather had never said it was bad thing, though.
Another set of doors didn’t open fast enough for Gian’s satisfaction, and he shoved that set apart, too. A nurse on the other side barely moved out of the way, and she dropped her bags with a squeak. On any other day, Gian would have stopped and helped the woman, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.
A half of a dozen men stood gathered in a semi-circle outside of the hospital room across from the busy nurse station. Gian recognized their faces—friends of his man, younger Capos that had likely heard something happened and come down for support. He appreciated the effort and their concern, but he was neither in the mood to talk, nor interested in playing to the mafia politics.
His car being bombed was one thing.
He always had a fucking target on him.
Cara, though?
Cara was a whole other matter.
“Gian.”
“Shit, nice suit, man. Where were you heading, tonight?”
Gian ignored the greetings and questions that were thrown at him as he passed through the group of men. He strolled into the opened hospital room to find Chris cussing a blue streak under his breath as a nurse stitched a three-inch, clean slice on the enforcer’s neck.
“Well, if you hadn’t moved so much,” the nurse muttered under her breath.
“I rolled over in the bed, cazzo. Maybe they should have got it closed up better the first damn time.”
Gian cleared his throat to gain the attention of both people. When the nurse looked to him, he jerked his head toward the door. “Get out.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “But—”
“Two minutes, that’s all I need. Get out, now.”
Thankfully, the woman went without much argument. She did finish the last couple of stitches before she left, though. Once Gian was alone with Chris, he turned and closed the door to keep his next words from being overheard.
“Well, talk,” Gian demanded.
Chris resituated himself on the bed to properly face his underboss. “Nothing too bad, a few scrapes from the pavement. A bullet nicked me on the throat. It’s fine.”
“Sì, I can see how fine you are. That’s the only reason I came to this room first, instead of Cara’s, because I hoped to calm down a bit more before I see her. What the fuck happened?”
“She’s fine, too, boss.”
Gian grinded his teeth. “That’s a matter of opinion at the moment.”
“She is. I got her down in time.”
“You have one job when she is in your care.”
Chris nodded. “And I did that job, Gian. That’s why she’s getting released tonight and I still have to be monitored until morning before I get my walking papers.”
That was true enough.
For the most part, Gian liked Chris because the man was straightforward and took no bullshit, yet he also understood the weight of respect in their world. So, while he would give Gian the truth in a blunt manner that someone else may not, he did it with the respect of a man who knew he was talking to his superior.
Gian’s posture softened, but barely. He was still walking on a very thin line of control. He had never been quite so worried, or so pissed off, as he was right then. “What did you see before the shooting started?”
“Very little. I was turned for Cara, I had the door opened for her. I wasn’t watching the street—I didn’t have any reason to think I should. The bullets started flying, and I was focused on getting her out of the way, that was it. By the time I got back up, my throat was bleeding all over the damn place and the car was gone. She couldn’t tell me anything when I asked, it was like she wasn’t even on the same planet, all of the sudden. Shock, maybe.”
Maybe.
Or maybe it was something else, too.
“So, basically, you’ve got nothing to help me?”
Chris shrugged, though the action looked painful. “It happened fast. I did my job. There’s nothing else to say.”
Gian nodded once. “Merci.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll see you when you’re not in a hospital bed,” Gian said before he slipped out of the room.
Outside in the hallway, Gian found the group of men had moved farther down from the door and away from the nurse station. Their conversation, however, was still being held at a level that he could plainly hear.
And it did not please him.
“So he was what, picking up the Rossi chick when it happened?” one of the Capos asked.
A solider nodded. “Guess so. Maybe that’s where Gian’s head has been lately—on her, you know.”
The men didn’t notice that Gian had left the room, nor that he was standing there listening to their conversation a few feet away. He didn’t let them in on his presence, either.
“I heard some whispers about that,” another Capo said. “He’s found himself a distraction, not that I blame him … considering everything.”
“Just call her what she is,” Constantino said. “Don’t dance around it like stupid fucks.”
When had Constantino showed up?
He hadn’t been there before Gian entered the enforcer’s room.
“Is that what you would call her, then?”
Constantino—Gian’s oldest and closest friend—nodded. “Sure, I would. What does it matter? It’s better that everyone else knows. Those type come second, anyway. Even Gian knows it, too. Why do you think he’s running around with her on the low, not shouting it from the rooftops like someone else might? Cara’s a fucking catch, don’t get me wrong. She’s an awesome girl—my cousin, too, so I can say that and know it’s true. But to Gian?”
Gian took the few steps that separated him and the group of men, shouldering one aside as he came face to face and toe to toe with Constantino. His friend didn’t even look surprised to see him standing there all of the sudden.
“Say it,” Gian dared his friend. “Say what you were going to say, cafone.”
Constantino didn’t blink. “We don’t have time right now to be running around after your flavor of the month, man, worrying about who might be coming after her next. It’s not an important detail, and somebody probably did this shit today to get your attention, since you’re too busy to pay attention to what actually needs it right now. She’s just a go—”
He didn’t even get to finish his statement.
Gian’s fist slammed into Constantino’s jaw, shutting the man up, making him bleed, and sending him to the floor instantly.
Made men didn’t fight. They sure as hell didn’t hit other made men. It was a rule. Gian was learning there were some rules that needed to fucking go.
That was one of them.
Gian looked down at Constantino, not bothering to offer his hand to help his friend back up off the floor. “Don’t you ever fucking disrespect Cara Rossi again. Not to my face, or behind my back. Don’t shout it, and don’t even whisper it. If it happens again, Constantino, I will sew your eyes together, burn your fucking ears off, and cut your tongue out. Maybe then, everyone else will understand what see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil really means to men like me. Maybe then, they might understand that a woman is worth far more than the title a man puts on her status. Test me, and watch what happens. Speak ill of her again, and I will slaughter you, friend or not.”
He didn’t bother to wait around and hear what was going to be said next. He had far more important things to do.
Like a woman in the unit upstairs waiting on him.
Cara needed a ride home. Happy fucking birthday to her, he thought miserably. This was not how the weekend was supposed to be. They should have been in Quebec already—hours ago, actually—watching a ballet together.
An apology was not going to make this better.
Of that, Gian was most sure.
Cara said nothing, her gaze lowered to the tiled floor of her bathroom as Gian carefully removed her white tweed coat and set it aside. The front of the beautiful dress that had been one of her birthday gifts was stained a reddish brown—Chris’s blood, likely.
She had suffered no open injuries, thankfully.
When Cara did finally speak, her dull tone took Gian off guard. Other than her soft greeting at the hospital when he walked into her room, she had said nothing the entire time it’d taken to get her out, and get her home.
He was not accustomed to this steel-spine, sharp-tongued woman being so … quiet.
“Please don’t say you’ll buy a new dress to replace this one,” Cara said.
Gian shrugged, pulling the zipper down on the garment to expose Cara’s back to his hands. He let his palms linger over the warm, soft skin of her shoulders as he pushed the shoulders of the dress down.
“I have a pretty decent drycleaner, actually. He’s got a knack for getting blood out as long as it’s not too old. A secret trick, or so he says. I think I’ll take it to him.”
Gian was lying through his teeth.
Blood didn’t come out of fabric.
He would get a new dress for Cara, he simply wouldn’t tell her that was what he had done.
“You don’t have to do that,” Cara said.
She still wasn’t looking at him.
Gian hated that.
“Hey.”
Cara let out a soft sigh. “Hmm, what?”
“Bella mia, look at me.” Gian carefully pulled the dress over Cara’s head, and then turned her to face him. Her emotionless expression only hurt him more. “I’m sorry for today, Cara.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Technically, it probably was.
He didn’t have to pull the trigger.
“The cops were in questioning me,” Cara said, running a hand through her messy curls. “They only got more annoyed when I couldn’t give them what they wanted. In case you’re worried, I didn’t say—”
“I’m not worried about that at all, mon ange,” he interrupted quickly. “I was worried about you, nothing else.”
“Still. I didn’t have much to tell either way.”
“Chris mentioned you … blanked a bit after the gunfire stopped and whatnot. Like you were frozen on the ground.”
Cara shrugged. “It could have been that day in Chicago all over again, because that was all I saw. I could hear Lea asking me to help her, not Chris. My mind is broken that way, I think.”
“Or you’ve got a touch of PTSD. An event like that is difficult to get over, Cara.”
“I just …” She trailed off, frowning.
“What, love?”
“I feel like something important happened—or I saw something important—but I can’t remember it because all I see is Chicago.”
“Whatever it was, it’ll come back, if it’s important enough. Otherwise, don’t stress on it. Certainly not tonight, anyway.”
Gian’s gaze was drawn to the bruises on the joint of her shoulder, and he had all he could do to quell the rage that suddenly boiled like hot lava inside his gut. With gentle strokes, he let his fingertips ghost over the marks. Chris’s attempt to get Cara out of the way as fast as possible had left her with a dislocated shoulder from the force of hitting the ground, and awful bruising around the joint.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Cara said.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
It seemed he was saying that a lot tonight.
“You look pissed.”
Gian chuckled dryly. “Because it pisses me off that you have any marks. The only marks that should ever be on your body are ones I put there when I fuck you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Cara smiled, but it didn’t come off as entirely true. “You don’t have to stay tonight. I’m sure you have other—”
“I have nothing to do but sit here with you.”
And that was just what he did.
The bathtub practically overflowed with lavender-scented bubbles by the time Gian decided it was filled enough. Steam was already starting to rise in the room as he helped Cara step into the hot, soapy water. He waited for her to get settled in before he pulled a chair from the kitchen into the bathroom, set it beside the tub, and pulled his book out to read.
Out loud, of course.
She liked it.
Cara leaned over and rested her head against his thigh, and Gian sifted his fingers through her silky hair as he read along.
“Other than the whole drive-by thing,” Cara started to say.
“Keep going.”
“This is mostly an okay birthday.”
“I will save the Quebec trip for another time, I promise.” Gian bent down to kiss the top of Cara’s head. “But it still managed to be okay for you somehow?”
“I didn’t realize it until I was in the hospital, but it’s my first birthday without Lea. I didn’t think about it leading up to today or as I was getting ready this morning. Tommas didn’t mention her when he called this morning to wish me a happy birthday. It wasn’t on my mind. She was the oldest twin by four and a half minutes.”
“You never told me that before.”
“Details,” Cara said flippantly. “She used to joke and say it was the best four and a half minutes of her life. I’m now six months older than she lived to be.”
“Things you don’t really consider, huh?”
“I suppose. I was going to say I think she had to be lying about those four and a half minutes, because these past six months have been the worst of my life.”
Gian stroked her cheek softly. “You have a good reason for that, though.”
“It wouldn’t be entirely true.” Cara smiled up at him, happier and more honest than before. “The last couple haven’t been so bad, really.”
Well, then …
He could understand that, too.
“But with the shooting and all,” Cara continued, “it brought me back down to reality.”
“And what does that mean?” Gian asked.
He wasn’t sure he was going to like her answer.
“I don’t know right now, Gian.”
Yeah, he didn’t like that at all.
The cemetery had a quiet, almost peaceful, quality about it. The usual sadness clung in the air, but it wasn’t as thick as Gian expected it would be. He stepped out of his car, and looked down the way, noting no vehicles but one that happened to be parked there. Checking his watch, he figured that gave him a bit of time before the men showed up.
Quickly, he strolled through the graveyard, passing by shined headstones and cleaned graves. Fresh flowers—some of the winter kind, but most for spring—rested upon the tops of a great many of the headstones.
All too soon, he came up to the one gravestone he was looking for. His grandfather’s. When his grandmother, Aurora, had died, Corrado made sure that the headstone placed on her grave also included his name, birthdate, and a blank spot waiting for his death date to be added. Now, that spot was no longer blank, but rather, carved in identical font and style to the rest of the numbering with his grandfather’s date of death.
His father waited on a nearby bench, a paper in his hands.
“Do you come here often?” Frederic asked.
Gian shook his head. “This is the first time, actually.”
“How does it feel?”
“Odd.”
“Oh?”
Gian bent down to place a handful of fresh flowers along the ledge of his grandparents’ stone. “I thought it wouldn’t feel like he was here, but it does, in a way.”
“Even though he isn’t buried yet.”
“Like I said, it’s odd.”
Corrado’s body was still waiting to be buried because of the frost in the ground. Another month, and the ground would be soft enough to dig. Gian didn’t plan to attend that event, but he figured that he didn’t need to.
“Do you come here often?” Gian asked his father.
Frederic set his newspaper aside. “Once a week to say hello to Ma. She used to threaten me that if I didn’t come to chat with her—even when she was dead—that she would haunt me for it. Turns out, this is like a haunting of sorts, anyway.”
“What about for Corrado?”
His father pointed to his temple. “That’s all in here. I hear him all the time there, Gian.”
Strange …
“I don’t hear him there. Or rarely.”
Frederic lifted his brow and said, “Perhaps you’re not listening close enough, son.”
“Or maybe he thinks he told me enough when he was alive that he shouldn’t need to be repeating it now.”
“Or that,” his father agreed, chuckling. “What did you want me here for today?”
Gian stood straight again, and crossed the path to sit with his father on the bench. “There have been some ongoing problems lately.”
“You must think I’m completely out of the loop because I’m not a made man.”
“I assume nothing about no one, Dad.”
Frederic looked over at his son. “And why is that?”
“Assumptions make for dead men.”
His father tapped the side of his head. “See, Corrado is in there, Gian. He simply doesn’t manifest to you the same way he does to me.”
“And how is that?”
“I often hear him voicing my failures, or his lack of approval. I never gave him what he wanted—except for you—after all.”
“But how do I hear him?” Gian asked.
“You hear yourself, son, because you’re too much like your grandfather to find the distinction at the moment.”
“We weren’t entirely the same.”
“It’s enough,” his father said, vaguely. “I know you’re having problems with Edmond and his older men. I figured you would, Corrado probably did, too. I think he hoped to make it longer than Edmond, but knew that wasn’t going to happen what with the cancer diagnosis. Nonetheless, here you are. I also hear you’ve found yourself a … friend.”
Gian’s expression blanked, and he was determined to keep his emotions that way on this topic with his father. “I don’t need to hear your opinions on that side of things.”
“Yes, well—”
“I also don’t want to hear it, Dad.”
“But what exactly are you going to do with the Rossi girl, Gian?” His father scoffed. “It’s not like you can have any kind of acceptable future with her.”
“Who says?”
“Cosa Nostra, and you know why.”
Gian clenched his jaw. “For a man who didn’t want to be a part of la famiglia, you’re well-versed on things you have no business knowing.”
“Thank your grandfather for that.”
“You can’t thank a dead man, Dad.”
“Funny, we’re always thanking God for something or other. Didn’t he die once, too?”
“Move on,” Gian demanded with a disinterested flick of his hand.
“Fine. The problems, you said. I already know.”
“Good. Stay low, off the streets, you know, the normal when there’s issues popping up. Pass the message along to Ma. I’ll tell Dom. I want everyone to be safe over the next little while. That’s all.”
“That implies you plan to make some moves of your own that might agitate an already volatile situation, Gian.”
“I’m not implying it,” Gian replied quietly.
He looked across the graveyard to see more cars had begun parking along the road. Most, he recognized. Men—the younger side of the family—that he knew would come when he demanded their presence. Even Constantino’s car was clearly visible, though Gian expected his friend to still be a little sour over their scuffle a few evenings ago.
“I’m not implying it,” Gian repeated, “because I’m outright saying it now.”
“Be careful,” his father warned. “Things that often seem clear and straightforward in this business rarely ever are, Gian.”
“What matters the most is that someone started a war, and I plan on finishing it.”