I hesitate, but Zane grabs my hand, being my strength in the moment. “It’s fine,” he tells me tenderly. “E' tutto OK,” he adds, and I nod, leaning down to give him a quick kiss.
As I step out of the room, I listen to the doctor’s orders and watch through the window trying to forget about the separation as Zane answers the doctor’s questions all while flickering his attention back and forth to me.
The way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m the one and only thing he needs to survive now. It only angers me that it took this for that bolt of realization to creep upon me. How dare someone try to take the reins out of my hands? I don’t care if my father is behind this, or if Zane has other enemies besides those in the Abbiati family tree. When I find out who did this, there will be fucking hell to pay.
People think they know me, but no one knows what Amelia Abbiati will do in the name of love.
It is now that I’m at my most dangerous.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I haven’t moved from Zane’s bedside for almost twenty-four hours. I’ve barely slept, barely eaten, barely even looked away from him. I watched as he ended up sleeping for the remainder of the day, clearly showing that his alertness this morning was too much for his body to cope with. He only woke up to tell me to go home and get some sleep. I didn’t want to listen, but when the nurses started to comment on how exhausted I look, I knew I had to heed their concern. I left, only after vowing to be back almost as soon as I possibly could.
But as I accelerate up the gravel driveway, I feel the pit of my stomach waiting to bottom out. I’m filled with such trepidation; I realize this is the last place I want to be. I’m more volatile than I had ever realized. I’m geared and wound up, ready for whatever fight, but in the same instance, I don’t want to know who was behind Zane’s shooting.
However, I listened to myself and as I get out of the Ferrari, I know I’m going to bypass any and all humans and go straight to my bedroom. I want a hot shower, my pajamas, and at least seven hours of sleep. My intentions are burst as I tiresomely open the door to hear the shrill horror of a man screaming. It’s blood curdling and burrows itself into me like so many before it. As it implants upon my memories, I follow the sound. It’s an unconscious pull, I can’t just flit somewhat merrily off to bed while anarchy is being set loose in my home. I’m emotionally drained right now, not to mention exhausted to all measures, but I need to see what’s going on now.
I walk in to find the culprits of snarling noise – the three Rottweilers that Giovanni holds onto. They are in all their vicious glory about to be set loose, waiting to start biting into one of the Abbiati goons. Giovanni helped to handpick Benji Rossi years ago to join the ranks, but apparently he went one step too far with something. As the man stands cowering before my father, his stance broken, he knows his fate without even being told it yet.
“What’s happened?” I ask as I come to stand beside Enzo.
He looks down, surprised I’m home, and shakes his head. “I’d just listen if I were you.”
So, I listen and watch as my father takes no notice of my additional appearance in the room. He just marches back and forth. His hands placed in one another behind his back, his body stiffened and held rigid. He exudes a multitude of angers, and I fold my arms over my chest and watch him. He marches back toward us, but he makes no acknowledgement of me at all. He’s in ultra Don mode. He is calculating how this will play out, how to assert himself thriftily and leave a mark on what is to come.
“I thought, after all this time, I was the boss,” my father begins to speculate.
“You are!” Benji argues, but my father throws his hand up, silencing him with one swift motion.
“You don’t get to speak,” my father tells him. “You did all the talking behind my back when you planned this little scheme of yours. For whatever reason you did it, I don’t care. All I care about is how you feel you are above me to make such rash decisions that jeopardize my entire family.” My father’s pacing sees him stopping before Benji. There’s a pregnant moment of deliberation, before he turns on his heels to face the doomed man. Pulling up his suit pants, my father crouches before the man, lowering to his level as he kneels on the oak flooring. “You see, Maverick was my daughter’s hit. I gave him to her out of good faith that she would do the right thing. From what I have heard, you didn’t think my daughter would be able to do it.”
My breathing fails at that comment. This has to do with Zane? There before me, weak and pathetic, is the man who had a hand in dealing Zane’s murderous death to him. Here kneels a man who looks ready to beg for mercy and salvation when Zane was shot in cold blood. Images of Zane begging, pleading, bargaining with his life violently assault me, and I wonder if Benji was the one who pulled the trigger.