If The Seas Catch Fire(7)

“Couple of Raffaele Cusimano’s thugs. I’d know… I’d know Michele Mandanici’s f*cking face anywhere.” Dom held his breath as he tried to stand.

“Easy, easy.” Stan took his arm and gently helped him to his feet. “Sir, he’s bleeding and that looks like a hell of a bump on his head. Don’t you think we should take him to the—”

“No,” Biaggio snapped. “Corrado’s waiting for him. Dr. Rojas is on his way. He’ll there by the time we get back.”

Stan pursed his lips, but didn’t protest. As the driver helped him into the car, Dom questioned whether Stan and the stripper were right. Maybe he did need a hospital. But that would be for the doc to determine, and Dom wasn’t going to the ER unless it was absolutely necessary.

Inside the car, Dom closed his eyes, trying in vain to get comfortable on the luxurious leather seats.

Across from him, Biaggio was silent. Paternal concern radiated off him—he had long been more of an adoptive father to Dom than Corrado, and Dom doubted Biaggio would sleep tonight until Rojas gave Dom a clean bill of health. While Corrado raged and plotted vengeance, Biaggio would be wringing his hands about broken ribs and internal bleeding.

He said nothing, though. He undoubtedly had a million questions, but Corrado would interrogate Dom as soon as the doctor had determined he was all right. Anything Dom told Biaggio, he’d be repeating to Corrado later, so there was no point in asking now.

Thank God for that. Talking hurt. Hell, breathing hurt. Dom really wasn’t in the mood to say anything to anyone unless it involved the words “morphine” and “now.”

All the way to Corrado’s house, Dom swam in and out of darkness. He was exhausted. Completely drained. As if the adrenaline had kept him going until the car arrived, and now he was collapsing. Like both of the other car rides he’d taken tonight, this one was a blur of turns and stops and starts until Biaggio quietly said, “We’re here.”

Dom opened his eyes as Stan eased to a stop in the portico in front of Corrado’s mansion. Beyond the tinted windows, a handful of people were waiting for him. Just four that he could see, and for that, Dom was grateful. This kind of offense—two thugs kidnapping and beating a made man—certainly warranted waking everyone in the family, but Corrado must’ve known Dom wouldn’t be able to handle a crowd of angry Italians. Not until he’d had some pain pills, some sleep, some coffee, and some more pain pills, sleep, and coffee.

Among the tiny cluster of people in the portico were his uncle, of course, and Dr. Rojas, the physician who’d come any time Corrado demanded it. Like most immigrants in town, the doc was owned by the family, and he was at the beck and call of the Maisanos to show up whenever he was needed, day or night, to treat anything from a child’s ear infection to a bullet wound, all the while turning a blind eye to certain things.

Things like exactly why Corrado’s nephew-slash-adopted-son was stumbling out of a limousine with blood all over him.

Rojas looked Dom up and down, his tanned face lined with concern. “Rough night?”

“Rough night.” Dom swallowed. “You’ve got something for pain, right?”

The doctor nodded, no humor registering in his expression. “Of course. But first, I need to make sure none of your injuries are serious.” The doc inclined his head. “If there’s anything internal or broken, there’s nothing I can do here.”

“Then let’s hope there isn’t,” Dom said.

Rojas nodded. He probably hoped as much as Dom did that this could be handled with a house call—nobody liked broaching the subject of a hospital transfer with Corrado.

With Biaggio and the doctor at each elbow, Dom shuffled up the portico’s marble stairs. Aunt Marcella had set up one of the guest rooms on the first floor, and they guided him in there.

Getting his jacket and shirt off was excruciating, but with the doc’s help, he was able to strip out of them.

“Sorry they woke you up,” Dom whispered.

“It’s all right,” Rojas ground out. “I got here as soon as I could once I realized it was you.”

They exchanged glances, but let the subject drop when Corrado appeared in the doorway. Wordlessly, Dr. Rojas examined Dom, poking and prodding just right to make his vision turn white, Corrado hovered at the edge of the room, arms folded and lips taut. Biaggio paced outside, occasionally pausing to peer into the room.

Finally, the doctor gave Dom a couple of pills and let him lie down. “I don’t see any signs of internal trauma beyond some bruising. Only an X-ray will tell us for sure if any ribs are broken, but if they are, the fractures are mild and there isn’t much to be done except wait for them to heal.”

“What about his head?” Corrado asked. “That’s quite a bruise.”

“The concussion appears to be mild. I’ll come back in the morning and see how he is.” Dr. Rojas paused. “He can sleep, but check on him every couple of hours.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

They continued talking for a moment, but Dom was already starting to fade out. He had no idea if it was exhaustion or whatever was in those pills, and he really didn’t care.

Corrado touched his arm. “Your cousin will come tomorrow and bring you some fresh clothes.”

Dom nodded slowly. “Thanks.” He didn’t need to tell his uncle he’d sworn off clothing forever. There was no way it would be any less painful to dress than it had been to undress, and dressing meant eventually undressing anyway, so he was going to be a nudist for the rest of his life.