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"Don't worry. You'll both be sick of me in no time."
I had this undeniable gut feeling, though, that nothing could be further from the truth.
I didn't think it was possible to get sick of her.
Chapter Twelve
Alessa
I let out a string of curses so foul on the way home that the usually pretty liberal Santi handed his son some earbuds and his phone to drown me out.
"Don't apologize," Santi said, as he opened my door outside his apartment building. "You're allowed to be miserable," he told me, reaching for my good arm to slowly lower me down out of the SUV to walk between two rows of men from the Families, my brothers included, all their backs turned to us, their gazes focused outward.
People stopped and gawked, making me push forward a little faster, wanting us to get inside and out of sight as quickly as possible.
Avi was led in behind us by Brio and Christopher.
It was a big deal.
I didn't even want to think about what it would look like every morning and afternoon when they had to take Avi to and from school.
A part of me wondered why they didn't just let him go on home instruction, but I figured Santi was worried about a teacher reporting back about mobsters and guns and various other suspicious activity. And he was probably safest at a school with thousands of other kids and teachers and security guards. Not to mention whoever Lorenzo would have sitting in cars nearby to keep an eye for any suspicious activity.
"Ugh, mother fu...father," I said as we got in the elevator.
"Almost there," Santi said, giving my wrist a squeeze.
By the time I got to the couch that someone had set up with fresh pillows, blankets, and a basket full of little essentials like tissues, pain relievers, chapstick, lotion, extra socks, and two big bottles of electrolyte drinks, I was miserable alright.
"Must be your ma," Brio said as we both looked at the basket. "Moms are good at shit like that," he added. "So I hear," he concluded.
By the time my brothers all came in and had coffee and poked fun at my grumbling, I was even moodier than I'd been at the hospital.
"Bet you're missing that drip button right about now," Elio said, rustling my hair that needed a washing, but I couldn't even fathom trying to bathe with my wounds. Maybe when my step-mom came over, I could have her help me wash my hair in the sink or something. I'd feel more human with clean hair, as superficial as that was.
"The pills just take longer to kick in," I said, shrugging my good shoulder.
"I have to get going," he said. "Work shit. You need to rest, okay? You're not on duty anymore."
"I'll try," I agreed.
"Good. See you in a bit," he told me, patting my good shoulder, then moving out.
Eventually, the apartment cleared out.
Santi somehow managed to get Avi involved in some project in his room.
And I was just starting to doze when there was a knock at the door, jerking me awake, making adrenaline surge through my body as I tried to sit back up, not wanting there to be people around me while I was drooling on myself.
Brio moved to the door, opening it up.
And the shock of seeing the man walking into Santi's apartment managed to chase away all of the exhaustion.
Salvatore Costa.
He was practically a legend in all of the Five Families.
Because when he was pulled in on murder charges and he'd been offered a deal to flip and turn State's evidence, get off with a slap on the wrist, he'd kept his mouth shut, and took his charge.
That shit rarely happened anymore.
Back before RICO, in the Golden Days, made men never flipped. They just took their sentences, and ran shit from the inside.
But when men started getting pulled in on life sentences for petty shit, Omertà—the code of silence—went right out the window.
Things had been volatile as hell during Arturo Costa's reign at the top. No one knew who to trust, or who might flip.
So Salvatore doing the honorable thing, well, it made him a legend.
I'd never met him myself, but I'd seen a picture once in a newspaper when I'd been researching the Family back when no one would give me any information because I was an outsider.
The picture hadn't done him justice.
And, well, the man had aged like fine wine.
Salvatore Costa was six-two with the kind of body that said he spent a good part of his sentence working out. Broad chest, wide shoulders, a strong core. He had a chiseled jaw with a cleft chin covered by a five o'clock shadow, dark eyes with thick lashes, and black hair with silver streaked through it.
He had on gray slacks and a black button-up that he left open at the neck.
