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The doctor pauses and looks at me directly. “There’s no indication of that at this time. Her vitals are strong. The seizure was controlled quickly. But until we understand the cause, I can’t give you a definitive prognosis.”

I nod along, waiting for her to stop talking, and the second she does, I say, “I want to see her.”

The doctor stands and tells me to follow her. Then she looks at Vinny and Carly and furrows her eyebrows. “Immediate family only,” she states.

Carly nods, accepting that. Vinny, however, doesn’t. He argues that he won’t let me out of his sight. I want to scream at him to stop wasting time. In the end, the two of them reach a compromise, and the doctor locates a place Vinny can stand and look into the room through the glass in the door.

Without looking back, I follow the doctor into Mom’s room.

13

Domenico

The fucking thief in the chair hasn’t given me what I want yet. He’s trying, I’ll give him that.

He’s saying words, making sounds that almost resemble answers. But the numbers still don’t add up, and until they do, he stays in that metal chair with the blood drying on his face and the zip ties cutting into his wrists.

The single bulb overhead throws harsh light that shows every drop of sweat, every smear of blood. The drain in the floor has been hosed down twice already, but the copper smell hangs in the air anyway, mixed with sweat and the sharp reek of fear.

You can always smell fear. It never washes out.

His face is split at the brow, the skin there puffy and dark. One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot and darting between Gio and me like he’s trying to find the softer option. His nose is… well, broken doesn’t seem sufficient after Gio had his fun.

“Let’s try this again.” My voice booms in the room. “Where the fuck is my money?”

I scrunch up my nose in distaste when the man pisses himself.

Gio laughs darkly. “Man can take a beating, but the sound of your voice scares his bladder into submission. Go fucking figure.”

I just shake my head.

The man’s eyes keep dropping to my tattooed forearms, as if he’s afraid the ink might reach out and grab him. I step closer so he has to tilt his head back to see my face.

“You took forty thousand from me,” I growl. “I want to know where it went.”

He swallows. His throat works visibly under the grime and dried blood. “I told you,” he says, voice thick. “Some of it went to my sister. She’s got kids. The rest…” He stops. Swallows again. “The rest I spent.”

“On what?”

“Cards. Some at the track.”

“The whole amount?”

Despite the beating, his face is easy to read. I watch as lies form in his head. “Most of it. Not all. Maybe… maybe I kept a little back.”

“How much?” I demand.

The room stays quiet except for the sound of his breathing and the faint hum of the bulb overhead. I crouch in front of him, bringing myself to his eye level. Close enough that he can see my face, the lack of anything in it.

He’s scared, which means he’s still capable of lying. Fear makes men creative. Fear makes them think they can talk their way out of anything.

I straighten up and turn to Gio. “Give him another few minutes to think.”

Gio nods and pulls out his phone, probably to set a timer. He’s a stickler like that. As if on cue, it rings. I arch an eyebrow at the tone—a soft tune that I know is specifically assigned to his wife, Carly.

The man in the chair goes still, his good eye darting to Gio as the latter silences his phone. The man sees his opening.

“Look,” he says, voice gaining a desperate edge. “I can get the money back. I know people. I’ve got a cousin who can help me. I promise, Don DeLuca.”