Primo strolled out then, just as coolly as he'd approached. Dante listened to his footsteps as they headed to his office.
Dante followed but paused in the foyer, hearing voices. His father was talking to someone. It took just seconds for him to recognize the other voice. Umberto. Dante debated interrupting, torn between confronting his father and wanting to get the hell out of there. His dilemma ended when the office door opened, Umberto walking out and closing the door behind him.
He frowned at Dante as he started toward him, carrying some stuff. Dante realized, as he approached, that it all belonged to him. His wallet, his car keys, and even his cell phone.
"Your father figured you'd want this stuff back," Umberto said, holding it out. "He said you'd want to leave, to cool off, clear your head, you know… that you're upset about things."
"Upset about things," Dante repeated, grabbing his wallet to scour through it. Everything was still in there, as far as he could tell, even a couple twenties. They hadn't bothered to steal his money. What kind of half-assed criminals...?
"Yeah," Umberto muttered as Dante shoved the wallet in his back pocket. "Sorry about all that, by the way… sorry about what happened."
"What do you have to be sorry for?" Dante grabbed his keys and phone next. The battery was dead, but Dante guessed it still worked, considering his father returned it. "It's not like you killed my sister."
Umberto didn't respond to that.
He just stood there.
No. Dante groaned as he slipped the phone in his pocket, clutching his keys. "Come on, man, don't tell me you…"
Umberto half-shrugged. Dante didn't have to finish where he was going with that. Nobody knew the ins and outs of cars like Umberto Ricci, the guy who had done time for stealing them twice. He knew all about circuits and conduits and whatever the fuck else it took to get power flowing.
Of course he'd been involved.
He'd certainly know how to wire a bomb.
"You were gone," Umberto said, trying to explain. "Your father wanted it all to be over. He figured, you know, it should come full circle. He wanted the bomb to be exactly like the one that killed your brother. Key in the ignition… boom. And your sister, man, I didn't know. Nobody could've known she would go after him, that she would risk her life like that, knowing there was a bomb."
"I would've," Dante said. "I would've known she'd run straight for him, because that's who she was."
"An enemy sympathizer."
An enemy sympathizer. Dante laughed bitterly at that. She'd been put in a box with a label, like she'd never been anything more than someone in love with someone so wrong. Fucking Romeo & Juliet in the flesh, dying stupidly over forbidden love. Dante wasn't surprised. He'd feared that for her. But it made him sick to hear it. She'd always been so much more.
"I meant she was the kind of person who would risk her life to save someone," Dante said. "Say what you want about my sister, but nobody can deny she was one of the good ones. She was innocent... a hell of a lot more innocent than any of us."
Dante walked out before Umberto could respond. Dante was in no mood to hear whatever he'd say to that. He didn't want to start off his night by punching the guy who had at one time been his closest friend.
Besides, the world was out there, waiting.
And wherever his sister was, wherever she'd ended up, he was going to make her proud. He was going to show her he hadn't forgotten the promise he made.
The promise that he'd be there anytime she needed him. He might've been late this time, but it was never too late to make things right.
Chapter Seven
Darkness cloaked Manhattan.
It had moved in hours earlier, coming on like a fog and swaddling everything around Dante. He found a strange sense of peace in it. He always had. As the sun went down, he felt himself growing calm.
More than anything, especially then, out there felt like home.
It hadn't been a particularly gloomy night. Nothing out of the ordinary. In a city like Manhattan, even in the darkness, everything still seemed to be lit up. Buildings, streets, and even the sky. Enough light radiated out that it made it damn near impossible to see any stars. But still, after nightfall, the world turned dark. It was like walking in the shadows.
Being invisible.
Invincible.
Dante sat on the metal bench outside of the hospital. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there but it had to have been a few hours. People came and went, moving in fast-forward, while he pressed pause, just existing in the moment. After darkness reigned, the sky again started to grow light. Dawn was coming. A new day happening. He'd survived another night.
Noises came from the entrance to the hospital near sunrise as a few people scattered. Shift change. Dante watched as a woman approached. Head down, eyes fixed on the ground, she walked at a brisk pace.
He almost let her keep going. Almost let her slip away. But his lips moved, his voice sounding out while she was still in earshot. "Nurse Russo."
She skidded to a stop. "Dante? What are you doing here? I thought you left."
"I did," he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out the yellow MetroCard. He held it up, clutching it between two of his fingers. "Figured I'd return this."
"You didn't have to do that," she said as she stepped to him, carefully taking the card and holding onto it. "You could've kept it."
He shook his head. "Returning it was the least I could do."
He didn't mention the fact that he'd loaded it with money, too.
"Well, thank you," she said, her voice hesitant, "but I'm serious... you didn't have to. You probably shouldn't have. Just because you got discharged doesn't mean you're healed. You should be in bed, recuperating, not hanging out here."
"I'm fine," Dante said. "Feeling good as new."
She rolled her eyes as she muttered under her breath. "You know, I didn't think it was possible, but you seem even more hardheaded now than you did in the hospital. And that was some next-level stubbornness. That was so stubborn they called in psychiatry."
Dante smiled at that. Her frustration amused him. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
"So I've heard," she said. "More than what meets the eye. That's what they say about you. A wolf in sheep's clothing."
"I guess my reputation precedes me."
"That it does."
Dante stood up from the bench then, lingering in front of her. He almost defended himself, but it seemed pointless.
"Look, Nurse Russo…"
"Gabby," she corrected him.
He hesitated before nodding once. "Do you want to, I don't know, grab a drink or something?"
She gaped at him. "A drink?"
"Yeah, I mean, I'm guessing you're old enough…"
"I'm twenty-six," she told him. "Which makes me older than you, but that's beside the point. You're asking me to get a drink with you, at seven o'clock in the morning, when you just got out of the hospital. Literally, just hours ago. You shouldn't even be on your feet right now. And you want me to go with you to get a drink? Are you insane?"
"I'm not sure. I didn't bother to read the psychiatrist's report."
"You should've. It said you suffer from a personality disorder, but you otherwise seem mentally fit."
"Huh, good to know. Did it give a name to the disorder?"
"The doctor was leaning toward Antisocial."
"Antisocial," Dante repeated. "So a sociopath, basically."
"Basically."
"Do I seem like a sociopath to you?"
She hesitated before mumbling, "I'm not a psychiatrist."
"I know you're not. I'm not looking for a medical opinion. I'm asking for your personal one."
"My personal opinion is that he knew your reputation and had you diagnosed before he even stepped in the room."
"So no, then."
"No," she agreed. "What's wrong with you isn't a disorder. I think something else."
"Like?"
"I'm torn between
stupidity and grief."
Despite himself, Dante laughed at that.
"So," he said, drawing out the word as he cocked an eyebrow. "About that drink?"
"Aren't you on medication? Didn't they prescribe you stuff? Do you really think it's wise to drink under those circumstances?"
"Wise? No. But that's never stopped me before."
She shook her head, running her hands down her face in exasperation. "This goes against everything I stand for. I'm a nurse, for crying out loud. You were my patient."
"I'm not your patient anymore," he said. "Besides, I'm not asking Nurse Russo to have a drink with me. I'm asking Gabriella."
He expected to be shot down. The odds were stacked against him. She was her and he was him, and they existed in different worlds, and she didn't really know him. She'd been acquainted with the reputation. She'd been introduced to someone who didn't exist, as far as he was concerned. But yet, she'd somehow seen through that, she'd seen a part of the real him in that hospital, and that was what gave him the courage to ask.
Still, though, he expected a flat-out refusal.
So when she hesitated, something stirred inside of him. Son of a bitch. She was considering it.
"One drink," she said finally.
"One," he agreed.
"And then you go home," she said. "I'm dead serious, Dante. If I have a drink with you, you have to promise that afterward, you'll go home, and you'll rest. You'll let yourself heal. None of this hanging out around hospitals to pick up nurses nonsense, like this is Pearl Harbor and you're about to be shipped off to war. You're charming, but not that charming. I'll give you this, but it's not going to work any more."
A smile touched Dante's lips. "You think I'm charming?"
"Right now, I think you're an idiot," she said. "Even more of an idiot than I am for going along with it."
"Yeah, well, you only live once, right?"
"Or in your case, twice. You've been given a second chance."
"A third, technically," he corrected her. "This wasn't the first time. I escaped death once before."
"You must have a Guardian Angel."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe the Grim Reaper hasn't caught up with me yet. Someday he will, though. But until then..."
"Maybe the third time's the charm."
"I guess I'll find out."
She offered him a tentative smile then before glancing around the neighborhood. "So, where are we going to get that drink?"
"Where do you want to go?"
She shrugged. "Surprise me. You're full of surprises, right? Just... make it a good one."
"Right." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. "I can do that. My car's parked just down the block."
"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.
The guy lunged from the backseat, grabbing Dante. Before he could pop off a shot, pain tore through him. A scream echoed from his chest as a knife ripped into him, piercing his side.
Again.
And again.
Those ten seconds passed.
It wasn't enough time.
A car showed up, pulling in behind them. It wasn't help, though. Reinforcements. Burning pain radiated. He was losing too much blood.
The driver's side door opened. Someone grabbed Dante, pulling him out of the car and throwing him on the ground. He was disarmed, his pockets rifled through. A kick to the side sent blood gushing out.
"That's enough," a voice said.
Roberto Barsanti.
Dante forced himself up, clutching his side. Roberto approached, stopping to intercept Dante's wallet from whoever had gone through his pockets. He stood in front of Dante, the two of them eye to eye.
"You killed my son," Roberto said. "You murdered Enzo."
"I di
dn't mean to," Dante said, spitting blood onto the ground. "I wanted to kill Matteo."
Rage took over Barsanti's face. "You think this is a joke?"
Dante shrugged.
Barsanti's cheek twitched as he took a step back, motioning to his men. "Take him to The Place, get him fixed up, then put him in the basement. Don't let him die. He hasn't suffered enough yet."
"Dante?" Fingers snapped in his face. "Are you okay?"
Blinking, Dante glanced at the passenger seat, meeting a pair of concerned eyes. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." Gabriella grasped his face, feeling his forehead. "You're pale and sweating."
He grabbed her wrist, stopping her as she tried to examine him. "I'm fine."
"But—"
"You're not Nurse Russo right now, remember? I don't need a diagnosis."
"You need something."
"I need a friend."
When Dante let go of her wrist, Gabriella shifted in her seat, resting her hands in her lap. "A friend."
"Yeah. And I know we don't know each other. I'm just that guy who was brought in, the one everyone talked about, the gangster." He grimaced when he said the word and noticed she did, too. "You're the nurse who drew the short straw. Tough break. So I get it, if being friends isn't in the cards. Hell, I wouldn't want to be my friend. Look at me. I'm all fucked up. But I don't know if I can count on myself right now, not like I should. So I need someone. Someone who can listen to me, someone who hears me, someone who can help me make sense of it all."
She was quiet before saying, "It sounds like you need that psychiatrist."
"I can't trust them, either," he said. "I can't trust a man who judges me by my name, who can diagnose me based on some bullshit reputation. I need a friend. And I'm not asking for some lifelong commitment, none of that BFF bullshit. Don't expect me to make you friendship bracelets, and I know sleepovers are out of the question. You can keep this as your dirty little secret. When you pass me on the street, act like I don't exist. It won't hurt my feelings, I promise. But I need someone…"