Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty Four
Roberto
The sliding doors part, and I move fast, the antiseptic bite of the lobby catching in my throat. I cut to the desk.
“Antonio Conti,” I say.
The receptionist’s eyes flick to her screen, then to my face. “He was taken straight to surgery. Third floor OR. Family’s in the surgical waiting area.”
“Where?”
“Elevators, right, then up to three. Signs will point you.”
I’m already moving. The elevator feels slow; my pulse does not. When the doors open on three, I step out into bright hall light, turn left, and see them: Luca standing rigid, Elena at his side, Nico pacing a short track, fists opening and closing.
“Where is he?” I ask as I reach them.
“They took him back,” Luca says, voice flat with effort. He grips my forearm. “No update.”
“Nico?” I press. “Tell me.”
Nico drags a hand over his face and plants his feet like he’s bracing. “We were meeting a new supplier at the Fulton warehouse, the one near the river. Antonio wanted eyes on the quality before we moved forward.”
“What supplier?” I ask. “Name.”
“Calls himself Ferro,” Nico says. “Came through a cousin-of-a-cousin. Looked good on paper. We ran the basics. It checked out.
“Two cars. Me, Antonio, two of our guys. We kept the second car back a block. Warehouse door was up, lights on. Looked normal. Pallets staged. Forklift working. The whole thing was for show.”
“How many?” I ask quietly.
“Six, maybe eight.” Nico’s jaw tightens. “They were in the shadows above the office and behind the racks. Antonio clocked the odd spacing first. He said ‘back out’ and it started. First muzzle flash came from our left. He pushed me and took the hit.”
“Where?” I ask.
“High right abdomen,” Nico says, eyes unfocused for a second like he’s seeing the moment again. “Close range. He stayed on his feet, got me behind a stack, started directing fire. Our second car came in hot when they heard it. We laid down enough to peel out through the loading bay.”
“Faces?” I press. “Marks. Accents.”
Nico shakes his head. “Masks. Ball caps. Standard. I didn’t recognize any of the shooters.”
“The Russos?” I say, watching his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he fires back, frustrated. “It could be, but if it was, they farmed it out, or they’re pulling people we haven’t seen. No hand signs, no names thrown, nothing. Just rounds.”
Elena touches Luca’s sleeve, grounding him. “Security cameras?”
“Already sending a team to pull them,” Luca says. “If they left anything, we’ll have it.”
I glance down the corridor toward the double doors marked OPERATING ROOMS. “What did the surgeon say on intake?”
Nico swallows. “They said the bullet tracked across the upper abdomen and may have nicked the liver and something near the vessels. They said they needed to control the bleeding now. They didn’t wait. They took him right back.”
“Anyone else hit?”
“One graze on Franco’s forearm. He’s downstairs getting stitched. Everyone else walked.”
“And Ferro?” Luca asks. “Where was he?”
“Not there,” Nico says, mouth hard. “It was his name on the text, and nobody on the floor matched the description we had.”
“So a catfish setup,” I say. “Pulled you to a controlled space and opened up.”
“Yeah.”
He’s holding it together with force of will. His right hand keeps flexing. Blood speckled his cuff; I clock it and say nothing.
The doors at the far end whisper, and my brother Giovanni comes in at a fast clip, Bianca on his shoulder, her hair twisted back, face bare. He scans, finds us, and closes the distance.
“What happened?” Giovanni says.
“Ambush at Fulton,” Don Luca answers, sparing him the preamble.
Giovanni’s eyes go to Nico. “You were with him.”
Nico nods once, then quickly goes over it again.
Bianca’s throat moves. “How long has he been in surgery?”
“Thirty minutes,” Elena says, checking the wall clock. “Maybe forty.”
Giovanni’s gaze goes distant for a beat while he works the timeline. “You think Russo?”
“It reads like them,” I say. “But the execution feels cleaner than their usual, and the entry point was a warehouse we don’t have history on. Could be a contractor. Could be a message.”
“Message received,” Luca says, low.
A volunteer in a green vest appears with a clipboard, calls “Conti?” to the room at large. We all turn. I step forward.
“Yes.”
“Family?” she asks, scanning faces.
“Yes,” Luca and I say together.
“They’ve started,” she says. “The attending will update you when he can, but they asked me to tell you that he arrived with significant bleeding. They’re controlling that now.”
“Thank you,” Elena says before I can bark something useless. The volunteer nods and vanishes.
“Any word from Cat or Vito?” Bianca asks.
Nico shakes his head. “I called Cat as soon as we got here. She said she’s coming. Vito didn’t want to stand around here, so he’s doing some recon at the warehouse.”
I’ll direct security to stand at the hospital, discreetly,” I say, then step away with my phone.
By the time I walk back, Nico has sunk into a chair. He stares at his hands, the blood staining them.
I sit beside him and tap my nephew on his knee once, a cue to breathe.
“It was a box,” he says, barely audible.
“You got him out of it,” I answer.
“Not fast enough.”
“You were the difference between bleeding out on some warehouse floor and making it to the hospital.”
Nico nods without looking up, jaw working. “He kept talking. Even after he was hit. Gave orders. Called me ‘kid’ like I was ten again. Then in the car, he went quiet. He never goes quiet.”
“He’s stubborn,” Giovanni says from across the row. “He’ll bully a surgeon if he has to.”
Caterina arrives at a near-run, hair loose, clothes askew. Luca catches her first; she folds into him, holding on for a minute, then steps to Nico, fingers brushing the dried blood on his cuff before she pulls him into a quick hug.
“What did they say?” she asks, eyes jumping to me, to Elena.
“He’s in surgery now,” Elena answers. “They’re trying to control the bleeding.”
Caterina nods too fast. “Okay. Okay.” She turns, finds me, and walks straight into my space. I brace for questions, but she wraps her arms around me instead. I hold her, feel the tremor in her shoulders.
She lifts on her toes, mouth close to my ear. “I was with Olivia when Nico called,” she whispers. “She drove me. She’s parking. I wanted you to know.”
My gut tightens. I nod once. “All right.”
She steps back, reading my face. I keep it neutral. There’s no room for last night right now. I park the thought of Olivia’s expression at my door—hurt, furious, finished—and lock it behind worry for my brother.
I look at the doors leading back again, then the clock, then pace a short line between two columns. Call logs. Security texts. Luca murmurs to Giovanni. Bianca uses a wet napkin to clean the blood off Nico’s hands. He just lets her.
I know the police will be coming in soon to ask questions. The hospital has to report all gunshot wounds. We have to figure out what we’re going to tell them.
The elevator pings and spills a handful of people into the hall. Olivia is among them. Slate blouse, dark pants, hair pulled back. She spots Caterina first, relief and alarm crossing her face in the same breath, then she sees the rest of us. She hesitates half a heartbeat, then comes forward.
“Olivia,” Elena says, stepping in first with the kind of poise and kindness only she manages so well. “Thank you for bringing Cat.”
“Of course,” Olivia says, voice low.
Luca inclines his head. “Thank you.”
“Any update?” she asks, looking at me, then away, then back to Caterina.
“OR,” I say. “They controlled a major bleed. He’s in critical care after this.”
She nods, jaw tight. “Good. I mean—not good, but better than—” She stops, swallows. “I’m sorry.”
Nico gets to his feet. “Thanks for getting her here.”
“Anytime,” Olivia says. She shifts her bag strap on her shoulder. “Can I get anyone water? Coffee?”
Bianca moves. “I’ll help,” she says. “There’s a kiosk downstairs.”
Olivia nods once and looks to Caterina. “You need anything?”
“Just… stay,” Cat says, voice small for the first time. “Please.”
Olivia just nods and, with Bianca, walks to find that kiosk.