And wearing cement shoes.
The last part wasn’t his idea. But Frankie, the boss’s right-hand man, was a mean SOB who had been in the concrete pouring business before he joined the Toscani crew. Frankie never gave up the opportunity to practice his trade, even if the nearest body of water was thirty miles away.
After he had changed his clothes, washed off the blood, and dropped off the suit at the dry cleaners, his day had gone from bad to worse.
He made a mistake.
Luca didn’t make mistakes.
When Gina got pregnant after a one-night stand, he hadn’t hesitated to do the right thing. After all, Gina ticked all the boxes for a desirable Mafia wife. She was a Mafia princess: pure Italian, well-versed in the culture, easy on the eye, and a good cook. Love wasn’t part of the Mafia marriage equation so he felt no guilt about spending Friday nights engaged in the extra-curricular activities expected of a senior Mafia capo. A wife was a symbol of status. A mistress was a symbol of power. Gina understood how things worked and as long as the money rolled in, she had no complaints. Life was good.
And then she died.
Luca had been totally unprepared for the emotional trauma of Gina’s death. Sure he cared for her, enjoyed spending some time with her, and they had an eighteen-month-old son, Matteo, together. But he hadn’t loved her, and the guilt of failing to protect his new wife, and knowing she’d died without truly being loved, had destroyed him. He’d sent Matteo to live with his mother, and tried to lose himself in his work for the family, taking on the most dangerous of assignments, regardless of the risk.
Hence the mistake, which had led him to his current confinement.
Gritting his teeth, he shifted in the uncomfortable hospital bed, biting back a groan as pain sliced through his chest. When Dante Cordano fired the bullet meant for Nico’s heart, Luca could have saved himself a whole a lot of pain if he’d worn a bulletproof vest. But sometimes, in the pit of despair, down was a hell of a lot more attractive than up.
A pale yellow glow flickered in the doorway, and his pulse kicked up a notch.
Nurse Rachel had visited him every night to give him pain relief of another kind. Even bruised and broken, his dignity ruffled by the continual poking and prodding of his person, he hadn’t had to put much effort into convincing the young nursing assistant to get down on her knees and wrap her plump lips around the only part of his body that didn’t ache.
When the door opened, he smoothed down his blue shirt and adjusted his belt. With a constant stream of visitors coming to his room, he had made it clear to the medical staff that he would not suffer the indignity of a hospital gown. Every morning, he washed, shaved and dressed with the assistance of his sister, Angela, and then he held court from his hospital bed. His mother set up some folding tables against the wall and brought food every day to feed his guests, and to ensure he didn’t succumb to starvation. There was her food, or there was no food. That was her way.
“Rachel, sweetheart.” His smile faded when an orderly followed Rachel into the room pushing a hospital gurney in front of him. Luca’s gaze narrowed on the sleeping woman in the bed. Her thick, blonde hair was strewn across the pillow, gleaming gold like the first autumn leaves. Her skin was pale in the harsh light, and her hospital gown gaped open at the collar, revealing a thin frame.
Rachel gave him an apologetic smile, and he watched as they settled the woman near the window—attaching wires to the monitors, adjusting the bed and checking her vital signs.
After the orderly left, Rachel leaned down and brushed a soft kiss over Luca’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rizzoli. I know you like your privacy, but there was a big shootout in the Naked City, and the ER is swamped. We don’t have enough staff or rooms to accommodate everyone so the head nurse ordered us to double every one up. I suggested putting you two together because you’ve got the same type of injury.”