If The Seas Catch Fire(8)

“Get some sleep, Domenico.” Corrado patted his arm gently. “We’ll discuss what happened in the morning.”

And that was the last thing Dom heard before everything went dark.



*



Though there’d only been a handful of people waiting when Dom arrived in the middle of the night, the house was crawling with them when he awoke the next day. That was what it sounded like, anyway. From what Biaggio told him, every Maisano within a hundred-mile radius, not to mention every lieutenant and soldier who wanted to stay in the boss’s good graces, had flocked to the mansion the minute they’d heard.

Though Dom wanted nothing more than to inhale painkillers and sleep until he was dead, he had no choice but to come out and show his face. He needed to give visual confirmation that last night’s “incident” hadn’t done any lasting damage, that he was still strong and on his feet. The longer he took to recover, the more word would spread that Floresta and Mandanici had brought him down a peg. A black eye and a cut lip were badges of honor so long as the man wearing them still faced the world like he was ready to take on an army. Image, image, image.

First things first, though—Dr. Rojas came by again to check on him. The doc was bleary-eyed and unshaven, but still looked a hell of a lot better than Dom felt.

“How are you doing?” Rojas asked as he checked Dom’s ribs.

“I’ll feel a lot better once you stop—” He hissed. “Fuck.”

“I’m not the one who beat you up.” Rojas pressed his thumb against a particularly tender spot, turning Dom’s vision white. “Don’t blame me.”

Dom tried to mutter about him being a son of a bitch, but he couldn’t breathe.

Rojas finally finished and sat back in the chair beside Dom’s bed. “You’re damn lucky they didn’t kill you.”

“Am I?”

They locked eyes, and Rojas sighed. Nothing needed to be said. Rojas wasn’t much older than Dom, and his involvement with the family had been about as voluntary as Dom’s. They’d surreptitiously had conversations like this for years. Rojas was probably the only man on earth who knew Dom would sell his soul to get the f*ck out of the Maisano clan. The doc himself felt the same way. He didn’t have a drop of Sicilian blood, but his father had essentially sold him to the Maisanos. A desperate Colombian immigrant, the senior Rojas had bargained with Corrado to send his eldest son to medical school, on the condition that the newly minted doctor would, in addition to a legitimate career, be the family’s personal physician. Of course, he’d neglected to mention this to his son until the degree had been earned, at which point Dr. Rojas was caught up in someone else’s deal with the devil.

In the past, when they were sure no one was around to listen, Dom and Rojas had confessed how much they’d love to run away from all of this. Leave Cape Swan. Change their names. Start over.

But others had tried, and they’d been found. Dom had witnessed what Corrado did to, as he called them, apostates. Those screams were lodged deep enough into his psyche to both remind him why he wanted to leave and why he didn’t dare.

Rojas cleared his throat and stood. “I should get going. I’ll let your uncle know you’re recovering nicely.” He glanced at the door, and quietly added, “Unless you want me to tell him you’re in no condition to meet with visitors?”

Dom groaned. Right. He had to go out and show his face, didn’t he? And nothing short of being comatose in a body cast would be a severe enough injury to make it acceptable to be bedridden. The message had to be clear that Floresta and Mandanici hadn’t given him more than a schoolyard beating. “No, I’d better do this.”

“You sure?” The doctor’s brow knitted. “Wouldn’t take much to—”

“I know. But…” He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Rojas left so Dom could make himself presentable. As promised, one of his cousins had brought him some clothes, and with the help of some more pain pills, Dom was able to shower, shave, and dress himself. Then he came out and followed the steady hum of voices toward the cavernous dining room where Corrado regularly held court.

Outside the room, Biaggio stopped him. “How are you feeling?” His brow creased, and the dark lines under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept at all. Guilt prodded at Dom—at Biaggio’s age, he couldn’t afford to sacrifice rest.

“I’m fine. They just knocked me around a bit.”

Biaggio sighed with relief and smiled, gently squeezing Dom’s arm. “Well, you must’ve had a guardian angel watching over you.”

The red-clad stripper flashed through Dom’s mind, and he suppressed a shiver. He didn’t tip his hand about the stripper. If he did, Corrado would send every Maisano in town looking for him, and either the kid would get roughed up until he told them everything he knew, or he’d coolly take out anyone who hassled him. The thing was, Dom did want answers from the kid, but he also owed him his life. He didn’t want to put a bull’s eye on his back or get anyone else killed who got too close if the stripper turned out to be a psychopath. He needed to find him and talk to him personally.

Yeah, someone was watching over me last night, but “angel” isn’t the word I’d use.