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.
“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.”