"Oh, you're driving?" A conflicted look passed across her face. "So you'll be drinking and driving on top of taking medication. Awesome."
"Relax," he said. "I'll get you home safe. I promise."
"It's not me I'm worried about."
He was getting to her. He could tell. Frustration was mounting into something more. She was worried. Hell, maybe she should've been. Maybe his head wasn't in the best place. Maybe there was something wrong with him. But it felt nice, he thought, to have someone worrying about him again, even if that someone was a stranger... a stranger that was too nice for her own good, frankly.
Dante motioned for her to come with him as he headed away from the hospital. Gabriella scowled, keeping in step with him as they strolled down the sidewalk. When he reached his Mercedes, parked cockeyed beside the curb, he opened the passenger door for her.
She stalled on the sidewalk, eyeing him warily, like she was debating backing out.
Dante wouldn't have blamed her if she did.
"I'm so going to regret this," she muttered as she climbed in.
"Probably," Dante admitted before closing the door.
When Dante got in, he noticed Gabriella's eyes were glued to his seat, to the discolored patch on the tan leather. Blood stain. His body covered it when he sat down. He knew, because the blood had come from him. He'd been sitting right there, in that exact spot, when it had been spilled.
Genna got out of the car, waving goodbye to her brother, and stood along the curb as he drove away. Dante watched her from his rear view mirror... watched her watching him. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. It had been brewing for days. Nothing was going as it should've. Their world was imploding. The family was at odds.
His sister was in love with one of them.
Of course, he'd known for a while, since he'd found Matteo in her bedroom, but he'd suspected it before that. Suspected it, but ignored it, hoping he was wrong. If you didn't see it, it didn't happen. If it's not happening in front of you, maybe it's not happening at all. Ignorance and naivety. That was what he blamed. His own ignorance and naivety in expecting it all to just go away.
He didn't blame Genna. He could never blame her. She was just being who she was.
Dante circled the block, coming back around, planning to wait outside of the community center as she worked her last shift. He whipped into an open spot along the curb, barely having a chance to park before the passenger door opened.
In that split second, he thought it was his sister. The terror didn't come until later, until a gun pointed at his face.
Tweedle-fucking-dum climbed in, holding a 9MM, his finger on the trigger. The door behind Dante opened, someone sliding into the backseat, both doors closing at the same time.
A glance in the rearview mirror told Dante it was Tweedledee.
The Civello brothers, two of Barsantis men.
They'd been close to Enzo.
"Drive," one of the brothers said. "Take a left at the red light and head down to Little Italy. Cooperate, and we won't kill your sister. We'll make sure she makes it home tonight."
Dante stared straight ahead, his eyes drifting toward the community center. "She has nothing to do with this. She's never hurt anyone."
"I said we wouldn't kill her." Tweedledum pressed the gun against Dante's cheek. "What more do you want?"
What did he want? More than he'd ever be able to have. After a moment, he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, before putting the car back in drive.
He followed their directions. He drove where they told him. He even pulled into the quiet, vacant alley, knowing it didn't lead anywhere.
Dante stopped the car, his heart racing. He had maybe thirty seconds... thirty seconds to try to save his own life. In broad daylight. The middle of Manhattan. At the hands of two idiots. This wasn't how he was supposed to die.
Where was the honor in that?
It was a snap decision. He didn't even think it through. The second he had the car in park, he swung, hitting the guy beside him, stunning him enough to make him lower the gun. Dante reached into his waistband, grabbing his own gun, whipping it out and aiming it. His thumb switched off the safety as his trigger finger shook. All he needed was ten more seconds. Ten more seconds and he'd kill them both.