breathing. “Come on, angel eyes, look at me.”
I did another round of chest compressions, two more breaths, and then she started to cough, water coming out of her mouth. The sound of her breathing sent air into my lungs. I pulled her tight into my chest, falling back onto my ass in the grass with her between my legs.
The men were in a frenzy around the villa, all doing what they could to make sure the rest of the place wasn’t going to blow, or we weren’t going to get attacked while we were vulnerable.
Nunzio knelt on the ground next to Adriano. He was sprawled on the lawn, either unconscious or dead.
Nicodemo nudged me, wanting me to look toward the stairs that led down to the yard. Tito Sala and a few other people hurried toward us. He had his doctor’s bag. He always kept it close.
Nicodemo’s phone rang. A second after he picked it up, he handed it to me.
“Corrado,” Uncle Carmine said, hearing my breath. “You must come home. Your grandfather is dead.”
My eyes focused on a spot in the water, where a board floated, Alcina’s bag next to it. I wasn’t sure when Nicodemo took the phone back, or what anyone said after that.
All I could hear was the words your grandfather is dead. I watched as something silver drifted closer to the shore, away from the bag that clung to the wood like a life preserver.
Even though my wife was adamant that she was all right, I demanded that she be taken to the hospital to get checked out. She had flesh wounds, like Nicodemo and me, but I wanted to make sure that when I had hit her, I hadn’t broken her in a place I couldn’t see.
They had already rushed Adriano to get help, since his wounds seemed more serious, though Tito thought he was going to be fine.
He did not take us to a regular hospital. He took us to a makeshift ospedale close to Milan. The Fausti famiglia used it whenever one of them, or a group of them, was hurt in the underground wars they fought. I knew they had them throughout New York—we had access to them—but I had no clue about Italy.
The places we used in New York were assigned by our territories, and we had to pay a fee to access them. Tito had an on-call staff that was sworn to secrecy—no one talked. It was in their best interests not to.
A female doctor that Tito said he trusted, Dr. Abbruzzese, was in there with my wife. Tito wanted to speak to me alone.
“I didn’t realize you had these places in Italy,” I said.
He took a seat on a rolling chair in his office, a folder in his hand. I wanted to know if my wife’s name was on it, but then again, I didn’t. If this had to do with her—
“Traditionally, no. I could go to any hospital, in any area, whenever I wanted. Things are a bit dicey right now. You have met Brando Fausti and his wife, Scarlett?”
I nodded. “I met Brando. Briefly. I heard things about his wife.”
I actually heard things about the both of them, but I didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation about it. Brando Fausti was Rocco’s older brother. He hadn’t claimed the family as his until he met them in Italy.
The general idea was that Brando Fausti was as fucking ruthless as his father, Luca, but there were some issues where his wife was concerned. Some big names in the international game wanted her for their own reasons, and it was a constant battle to keep her.
Tito adjusted his glasses and tilted his head, like he wanted me to continue, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with the Faustis.
“I heard that she’s a famous ballerina—and that she’s caused some trouble.” I left it at that.
“Trouble.” He grinned. “Which is the exact reason I decided to bring the idea of having these places here from New York.” He lifted the folder. “This is not about your wife, but your grandfather.”
For the second time that day, I knew what it felt like to have my breath stolen and then miraculously given back.
He handed me the file and said one word, “Prova.”
Proof.
Uncle Carmine could have been just telling me that my grandfather had been killed to get me home, and then ambush me when I got there.
I opened the folder. Photographs were stacked one behind the