“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 fuck 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.
“You’d better go inside.” Biaggio gestured at the huge double doors to the dining room. “A lot of people are waiting to see if you’re okay.”
Dom smiled thinly. They were waiting for Corrado to see them waiting. But whatever. Image, image, image.
The second he walked in the door, someone called out, “There he is!”
Every head turned, and instantly, every made Maisano descended on him, shaking his hand and—carefully—clapping his shoulder. Such was the game they all played. The beaten had to show his face and prove he was all right, and anyone who wanted to be on Corrado Maisano’s Christmas card list had to show his face to make sure the old boss knew he was concerned. Image, image, fucking image.
Aunt Marcella served everyone a massive lunch, and afterward, having played their part as concerned members of the family, the men left. Still in pain, still hazy from the pills, and now drowsy after eating, Dom wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.
But just as duty had called the troops into Corrado’s house, it called Dom into his uncle’s office.
Only Corrado’s innermost circle was invited to this meeting. Biaggio, of course. And Corrado’s sons, Luciano and Felice. Like everyone else, they’d all put on a show of strength and solidarity, laughing and carrying on over wine and antipasto, but now they were quiet and serious.