11. Dominic
11
DOMINIC
It’s almost eleven p.m. when I walk into the service road at the back of our private clinic. Gus is waiting for me, and we both get into my SUV. With a nod, I give Stan the go-ahead to drive home.
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. What a fuckup. We have an unknown woman in our custody—for lack of a better word—thanks to Franco Fiore. By the look of her, she isn’t just any woman, either. She might have Randazzo’s mark tattooed on her skin, but my gut tells me she’s too beautiful to be a run-of-the-mill prostitute. Not with those blue eyes, blond hair, and creamy skin that screams Scandinavian heritage like nothing else. I’m guessing she’s in her mid to late twenties, and the women who have worked the circuit for some time have a certain look about them, a hollowness in their eyes that nothing takes away.
It’s a look Ariana Morelli doesn’t have.
The way Franco treated her has something to do with this gut feel, too, but there’s more to it. It’s the way she clung to me earlier and how she fell asleep in my arms on the way to the clinic that speaks to me. As if she felt safe with me.
Fuck it. I’m not a better man at all. I’m probably worse.
With a sigh, I reach for my phone in my pocket and glance over the latest messages. Luca and Benedict were in charge of the warehouse’s clean up, and Matteo stayed with Stephano. When I last checked in on Steph, he was still with Dr. Wong, having his hands and other wounds looked after.
Everybody has gone home already. I stayed at the clinic to be with Ariana when she woke up to reassure her. It’s late, but I need to talk to Matteo.
Me: Are you still up?
I bet after a day like today, he isn’t going to look at his phone again once he’s with Tasha.
Matteo: Yep. We got home over two hours ago.
Enough time to fuck his wife, then. Why isn’t he sleeping?
Me: Gigi’s ok? And Tasha?
Matteo: All good. Steph is with Gigi now. She’s going to be fine.
He keeps on typing, probably asking the question I’m already answering.
Me: She came out of anesthesia just fine. Ariana Morelli. Does the name ring a bell?
There’s a pause, and it takes him a minute to respond.
Matteo: No. What’s the damage?
It’s our fault she got shot in the first place. I don’t want to do a ballistics report to figure our whose rogue bullet hit her. Whether it was Benedict’s bullet or mine, it’s irrelevant because it wasn’t intentional.
Me: Ricocheted bullet. No serious damage. She’ll be up and about in no time.
Provided she rests. And eats. All the signs are there: this woman has been tortured, and I bet she’s going to suffer from PTSD. Whatever Franco subjected her to, she’ll need time to heal. That’s one side of the coin. The other side is why .
I have so many questions. If she is our little sister, how did Franco know about her whereas we’ve been oblivious for decades? How did he know about us to such an extent that he brought her to Boston…and why did he burn her with cigarette ends and cut into her skin?
My thoughts zap to Gigi and how she was when she came to Boston. I bet she carries the same scars, but neither she nor Steph has ever mentioned it. Not until today in the warehouse, when Steph accused Franco of cutting into Gigi’s flesh. I shudder.
Matteo: That’s good news at least.
Yep. At least we don’t need to get rid of another body.
Me: I’ve asked someone on my team to arrange some DNA tests for us. They should deliver them in the morning. Results take two days.
Matteo: That’s a start. I’ll come with you to see what she says.
I get it. Ariana Morelli will have to talk. She parachuted into an Il Consiglio war zone what with Stephano beating Franco to death and us taking down two of his henchmen. Now, we need to manage the situation. With Randazzo’s seal tattooed on her lower belly, Matteo will have questions.
Another message pops up before I can respond.
Matteo: By the way, two men were apprehended this morning at Steph’s gym. They were asking after him, or his lookalike for that matter. They weren’t playing nice.
What the fuck?
Me: Who ?
Matteo: Sounds like more of the Ukrainians Franco hired. Bait and switch works every time, but this was too close a call.
Shit. Some new crime ring was poking around in our salad while we took out Franco Fiore. This is more than smoke—this is a full-on wildfire shaping to blaze out of control.
Me: Where are they now?
Matteo: They’re at your place, Nicky. A gift from me to you.
I drop my head back with a grunt. Fuck it. This day can be done already. I don’t want to deal with this right now. Vincenzo Trapani is still hanging by a thin thread in that special room next to Matteo’s apartment, so I get why he sent these new ones my way. There will be five bodies to deal with once we’re done on that side: Vincenzo plus the four Ukrainians we picked up en route with this Gigi Trapani fuckup. Now, there’re two more at the old Don’s house.
It all started when Matteo went and took out Randazzo.
Fuck my life. There I thought we were cooling things down. Taking a calmer approach to this whole Mafia business.
I drag in a slow breath and type back a closing message: It’s not my fucking place, Matty. I’ll see you in the morning.
When we arrive at the Don’s compound half an hour later, I spot Bruno waiting for me as usual. All I want to do is sink my fingers into his thick fur and find some equilibrium in my mind and body. Instead, I give him a quick rub and make my way down to the basement of the house with Gus in tow. I acknowledge the other guards as we head deeper into the dungeon. Gus doesn’t speak much, and that suits me just fine.
The place is a maze, mostly because the house’s square footage is so massive and the Don liked his prisoners confused with the several twists and turns. Before the cells come into view, I open a linen cupboard and pull out medical masks and sterile gloves from a container and hand Gus some, too.
They weren’t playing nice.
I know what that means. Our side wasn’t playing nice either. No wonder Matteo is still up. He’s had a rough start to his career as Don, and now, we have wannabe Bratva trespassing on our territory. The least I can do is prove to my brother that I’m his right hand and he can rely on me.
Masked and gloved, we walk into the dimly lit space where cages separate and hold our subjects. Two men are tied to shackles hanging from the beams overhead. They’re still clothed, but they’re pretty banged up. Swollen eyes, dried blood trails down their chins, heads bobbing as they realize someone’s arrived. Gagged.
Good. By the look of them, they’ll last another day or two. I don’t need to take care of this now. I’m not in the fucking mood.
“I’ll deal with this tomorrow. Keep them alive, will you?” I tell Gus.
“Yes, boss,” he says with a nod.
My command will find its way down the chain.
As I retrace my steps and ascend the stairs to the main house, I roll my shoulders and stretch my fingers and curl them into fists, an age-old method I use to release tension. All my fingers obey the movement, except my left hand pinkie.
Let’s get one thing straight: I’ve never been in the fucking mood for any of this shit.