The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,180

help, he sat up, and she draped his robe around his shoulders. He put one arm through its sleeve, but the other…no. The muscles hurt too much, so he just kept that arm against his side beneath the robe. He had on pajama bottoms already, though he had no memory of dressing or being dressed, so all he needed to do now was get to his feet and across the hall to Danny.

“Giulia,” Mama called through the open door. “Come help me.”

Floorboards creaked, and a moment later, Giulia appeared. Her eyes widened. “Should you be up? The doctor said—”

“I need to see Danny,” Carmine rasped.

“Would you help him?” Mama gestured at Carmine. “I’m not strong enough.”

“Of course.” Giulia eased Carmine to his feet. She was smaller than him, which made it awkward, but he leaned on her and slowly and carefully shuffled out of his bedroom and across the hall.

In the other bedroom, James sat in a chair beside the bed. He started to get up, but all it took was one look at his bandaged leg to make Carmine remember everything the priest had been through during their ordeal.

“Sit.” He gestured weakly for James to sit back down. “I’ll take…” He motioned toward a chair someone had situated on the opposite side of the bed.

James hesitated, but sat, and with Giulia’s help, Carmine eased into the other chair. He had to pause to catch his breath, both from the exertion and the pain, but when his mind and vision cleared…

Danny.

He was tucked beneath the covers, sweaty red hair plastered to his ghostly pale forehead, and he was deathly still. His chest rose and fell, but barely.

Carmine met James’s eyes over Danny. “Has he been awake at all?”

James nodded. “The first night. But by the next morning, the fever set in, and…” He trailed off as he watched Danny, his expression full of worry.

“The first night?” Carmine turned to his mother and sister. “How long has it been?”

“Almost three days.” Giulia’s voice was soft. “You’ve been getting better, but Danny…hasn’t.”

Carmine pressed his lips together as he looked at Danny. “What happened to him?”

“When we were trying to find you and James,” Giulia whispered. “There was some debris, it…” She sighed. “We both stumbled on it, and I knew he’d cut himself, but I didn’t know how bad it was. Not until we found you two outside.”

“I don’t think he was cut so bad at first,” James said quietly. “From the way he was bleeding when they found you, he must have torn it open on the way out.”

Carmine’s heart physically hurt. He vaguely—very vaguely—recalled them getting out, and he thought he remembered a cry of pain from Danny. He hadn’t known in the moment, but he was sure now that that was when Danny had torn his leg open.

You might have killed yourself saving me. Why, Danny? Damn it, why?

“And Salvatore?” he asked quietly.

“Dead.” James said it like a soldier ready to spit on the man’s grave, not a solemn priest, and his eyes echoed that sentiment. Nodding toward Danny, he quietly added, “I think Danny shot him.”

“He did,” Giulia whispered. “After the explosion.”

Carmine’s head swam. His memories of the whole ordeal were fuzzy at best—little more than dancing flames and darting shadows. He remembered enough to know how close every last one of them had come to dying inside that burning warehouse, and he shivered, watching Danny and wondering if Danny had come so far and defeated so much only to die here in Carmine’s house. Danny had shot Salvatore il Sacchi and fought his way—bleeding and choking—through flames and debris to save Carmine.

Carmine couldn’t resist giving Danny’s arm a squeeze through the thick quilt.

You’ve come too far to die now. Stay as stubborn as you’ve always been and fight, damn it.

Down the hall, a door opened, and Carmine thought he heard children’s voices. The door closed again, cutting off the voices, and floorboards creaked under feet.

A man appeared in the doorway, and he started when he saw Carmine. “Oh. You’re, um… You’re recovering, then.”

“Slowly.” Carmine studied him. The blue eyes, red hair, and freckle-sprinkled nose were impossible not to recognize, and neither were the angle of the jaw or the shape of the nose. “You’re Danny’s brother.”

With a nod, the man came into the room. “I am.” He extended his hand. “Rowan Moore.”

Carmine started to extend his own hand, but pain reminded him not to. Instead he offered his left hand, and they exchanged an awkward handshake as