he put his arm under the spray. He leaned into the counter, his head resting against his shoulder, and closed his eyes as he waited for the searing pain to fade. Gabriella's voice rang through the apartment, on the phone, frantically calling her family.
Five. Ten. Fifteen minutes.
"They're trying to find Gavin," Gabriella said, stepping into the bathroom and turning off the running water. "Nobody has seen him since the wedding. He left around the same time we did, said he had somewhere to be, but he didn't tell anybody where."
Dante opened his eyes and stood up straight as Gabriella shifted seamlessly into Nurse Russo, tending to his burn. His jaw clenched as she rubbed ointment on it, her touch gentle but son of a bitch it stung.
"Gavin will resurface," Dante said as soon as the pain subsided enough for him to form words. "He always does."
Gabriella wrapped his arm in gauze. "You don't think he could've been there, too, do you? There's no chance he…?"
"No," Dante said. "He wasn't in there."
"You're sure?"
"If Amaro's son needed rescued, he would've made damn sure it happened."
"How do you know?"
"Because that's the type of father he is."
Gabriella seemed to accept that answer, reaching into her medicine cabinet and pulling out an orange prescription pill bottle, handing it to him. Vicodin. "Isn't sharing meds against the rules for you?"
"It's against the rules for everyone, but I've jeopardized my career a bunch already, so what's one more time? Besides, you deserve it, you know... deserve to feel better. You're a hero."
"I'm not a hero, Gabriella."
"You pulled a man out of a burning building," she said, smiling sadly. "Pretty sure that makes you Superman."
Genna stood in the kitchen, scowling, as cold air trickled out at her from the noisy decrepit freezer. She shifted packages around, her stomach growling. She'd left Matty asleep in bed, since he had the day off of work, figuring she could fend for herself, but man, she'd never gotten better at being domestic.
What the hell to cook?
Pizza—pizza cheesesteak, pizza burger, flatbread pizza—pizza something, extra-cheesy with pepperoni, preferably fast. Why can't I get delivery in the desert?
Floorboards creaked as she stood there, footsteps on the stairs coming her way. They headed right to the kitchen, like a guardian angel sent to save her from impending starvation.
"Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art the fucking Pizza Rolls, Romeo?" She closed the freezer door, her scowl deepening at the sight of the face in front of her. "Oh, ugh, not Romeo."
"And you're no Juliet, Genna with a G."
Gavin Amaro stood there, the epitome of the words dressed to kill, wearing a well-tailored black suit and a smirk. "When did you get here?"
"Last night, after you two were asleep."
"And what, you just let yourself in?"
"Pretty much," he said. "I'm surprised you didn't see my car or hear me come inside. You're getting complacent."
Genna rolled her eyes, peeking out the window, seeing the black rental car right beside the one he had given to them on his last visit. "What do you want, anyway?"
"Needed to get away for a bit."
"So you come to the desert? The middle of nowhere? That's your ideal holiday vacation?"
"Seems to be working for you. Besides, gotta occasionally bless you with my presence so you don't miss me too much."
She scrunched up her nose. "I don't think that'll be a problem, but I guess I can tolerate you for a while as long as you buy me breakfast."
"Buy you breakfast."
"Yep," she said. "But keep your hands to yourself, because I'm a married woman now."
He blinked a few times before pulling a set of keys from his pocket, muttering under his breath, "fucking Galantes."
Her brow furrowed at that, but she shrugged it off when he motioned for her to follow him. "Wait, seriously, you're going to?"
"Why not?" he asked. "Pretty sure there's a rule against denying a pregnant woman food."
Genna slipped on her shoes, trailing him to the door. "Should I wake Matty?"
"No, just let him sleep," Gavin said. "We'll bring him something back."
The two of them climbed in Gavin's rental car, and he drove down the bumpy dirt path leading to the highway.
"What do you want?" he asked. "Pancakes? Waffles?"
"Pizza."
"Where are we going to find pizza at seven o'clock in the morning on fucking Christmas?"
"I don't know," she said. "Figure it out, Amaro."
Gavin pulled out onto the highway, aiming the car in the direction of Las Vegas. He sped along, not saying anything, fiddling with the radio trying to get something decent to come in. The