Two nurses race into the room. Screams mix in with the noise. “Sir! Stop! You can’t do that.”
I stagger to my feet.
Emilio Conti is a dead man.
I shove the medical monitor and send it crashing into the wall, then totter toward the door. Slow and unsteady, the race lost before it begins.
Two large, burly men in suits easily intercept me. I pop the first man in the chin, catching him by surprise. “Move out of my way.” My words slur, and my legs grow heavy like I’m carrying extra weight.
“Your father’s on his way.”
No shit, Sherlock. That’s why I’m on my way out. Conti is mine. I have to end his miserable life before my father does. Redeem myself. Prove I’m worthy. I’m tempted, so tempted, to rat out my brother. Give my father’s men something to focus on other than holding me back.
A needle is thrust into my arm.
Damn it. I should have expected this.
“That motherfucker won’t get away…” I’m pinned to the bed and then sedated. I struggle against the binds pulling tight across my body. Pure, unrequited rage fills me.
You fucked up, Sandro.
Beep.
Better get your story straight.
I watchmy father’s arrival through slitted, swollen eyes. He hits a wall, surprising me. His style’s more ticking time bomb than grenade toss, a calculated fury that’s nevertheless terrifying to witness.
Two nurses bolt from the room.
“Get a guard posted outside who doesn’t reek like fucking sauerkraut,” my father snarls into his cell phone. Only an Italianloyal to the Beneventi famiglia is trusted enough to stand watch over his son, keeping everyone out—and me in this damn bed.
He knows I disobeyed an order.
He’ll want an explanation.
Why risk so much when she was just another shiny new toy to break in, to mold, to reshape and corrupt? She never really knew me. Did she listen to Tommaso’s order? Escape while she could? Not that it matters now—what’s done is done.
She meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, so what’s the point in bringing her up?
A doctor approaches the bed with a clipboard.
I shutter my eyes and buy a few more minutes to prepare myself.
“How is he?” my father demands.
The doctor fumbles nervously, on edge. “He has two broken ribs and a fractured nose, along with severe swelling on his left side. We can’t detect any internal bleeding, but there’s a strong likelihood he has a concussion.”
“Keep him here for the week for further observation.”
The doctor makes a strained squeak, clearly unsettled. “We’ll do our best. He tore out his tubes, trying to leave, so we’ve had to restrain him to the bed.”
The damn tattletale.
“Free him. He’ll do as I say.”
“Yes, Mr. Beneventi.” The straps pulled tight across my body fall free. Footsteps retreat, leaving my father’s tall figure looming over the bed.
“Open your eyes, Sandro. I know you’re awake.”
