As his body ached and throbbed and threatened to just fall apart, his mind reeled. He tried not to think about everything that had happened tonight, tried not to pick apart exactly how the motherfuckers had caught him with his guard down, but that was easier said than done. It was like his brain had split into two pieces, and both sides were pulling him in opposite directions. One wanted to focus solely on staying conscious and watching for his ride. The other wanted to go back to the restaurant where his evening had started and retrace his steps. Figure out exactly when things had gone to shit. When he’d ceased to be meeting with Brigida Passantino, the woman his uncle was pressuring him to marry, and when he’d suddenly been in serious danger. And serious pain. And…here.
He rubbed his forehead, carefully avoiding the goose egg swelling near his hair line. There’d be plenty of time to retrace those steps when he got home. Biaggio had undoubtedly notified Uncle Corrado—no one in the family got roughed up without the boss knowing about it. Corrado was probably already pacing in his office, ready to grill Dom about what had happened. Or more importantly, who had happened. Who had dared to fuck with a boss’s nephew? Who was Corrado going to order dead before sunrise?
Dom was pretty sure the guys who’d fucked him up were dead already, though. The shouting and struggling in the trunk of the car had ceased after a few small caliber gunshots. Assuming he hadn’t hallucinated that part. Had he? No, he was pretty sure that had been real. Along with the red leather clad stripper who’d pulled him out of the car and then vanished. Had he been a hallucination?
Except Dom hadn’t gotten to his feet, into the car, and out of it again on his own power. Someone had been there beside him—he could still feel every tender spot the kid had touched while helping him up.
No, he’d definitely been real. And dangerous.
The back of Dom’s neck prickled. In his mind’s eye, he saw the pistol in the stripper’s waistband, the way the kid had carried it comfortably and naturally.
The gunshots echoed in Dom’s mind. There hadn’t been anyone else around. No one else could have pulled the trigger. Which meant…
No way.
But then, who else could have done it? For that matter, it didn’t take a big guy like Dom to pull a trigger, though God knew he’d pulled his fair share. A pistol made anyone, however slim and slight, physically capable of killing. If Dom could cope with putting a bullet through someone, he had no reason to believe that stripper couldn’t. And those ice cold eyes hadn’t held a trace of fear, though Dom had hardly been a threat to anyone by the time he could look at the kid’s face. Still, Dom was alive, Floresta and Mandanici were dead, and…
And who the fuck was that kid?
*
It seemed like hours before the sleek black car pulled up and stopped on the curb. Two doors opened. Stan, the driver, hurried around the front as Biaggio, the white-haired consigliere, stepped out of the car.
Biaggio’s eyes widened. “Domenico, what happened? Who did this?”
“Couple of Raffaele Cusimano’s thugs. I’d know… I’d know Michele Mandanici’s fucking 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.”