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CHAPTERTEN
AFTER BREAKFAST, AND with nothing to do, Luca decided to get a better look at his surroundings. If anything was supposed to be off-limits, Chef didn’t mention it, and Luca figured if there was anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be, he’d be told real quick. Even with the guy’s seemingly friendly demeanor, Luca didn’t trust Chef. How could he? Chef was clearly in on whatever this was.
Luca walked over to the window in the main living area, the one that seemed to be about two floors high. It looked so different in the daylight, without the glittering lights of the city below. Instead it all looked harsh, too bright, too normal for what was happening in Luca’s world. All those people below, going to jobs, doing touristy things, walking by without a care in the world, and he had no way to get their attention, no way to call out for help.
God, there had to be a way. Somewhere in this place there had to be a phone or something that could help him.
He looked over his shoulder to where Chef was still banging around in the kitchen cleaning up, and then scanned the room. He’d already walked through the dining area, where nothing but a long white table and chairs sat empty and pristine, as though they were rarely, if ever, used. The living room contained several modern couches and chairs—again with the creams—and other than a handful of trinkets, there was nothing of use there either. But maybe where Dom slept…
With Chef preoccupied, Luca took the opportunity to head upstairs. Surely in a place this size there had to be something that would tell him who Dom or the people connected to him were.
At the top of the stairs was another seating area, a smaller version of the one downstairs, along with a meeting table. It didn’t take him long to realize there was nothing for him there, not even a hidden button under the table for emergencies.
Or maybe he’d just seen too many thrillers.
Down the hall he went, going into each and every bedroom, all of them similar to his, but none of them sparing any detail about its owner. Even the room set up as an office had just a desk, chair, fireplace, and a couple of sculptures. No drawers. No phone, no printer. Just like the rest of the place, it was extravagant but completely devoid of anything personal. There wasn’t one picture, one rogue notebook, nothing that suggested it was a home where Dom or anyone lived. It felt more like a stopover, or in Luca’s case, a place for hostages, masquerading as a luxurious hotel room.
Luca cursed in frustration, heading back to his room, and noticed the door at the end of the hall. Was that where Dom stayed?
Even though Chef had said Dom was out, Luca’s heart still raced as he reached for the knob—only to find the door locked.
He twisted again, but no, this was the one locked door in the entire place, which meant it definitely had secrets behind it. But before he could begin to think of how to get inside, shouts sounded from downstairs.
Something was wrong. Hell, everything was wrong, but the voices of alarm had Luca racing down the hall to see what was happening.
He leaned over the glass banister, catching a glimpse of several men he’d seen before and one he hadn’t. Loud voices rose, one over the other, and he could only make out the words “shot” and “Fiores” over the stream of curses.
Wait, did someone get shot? Who?
Luca saw Chef running to the dining table, towels in hand, but couldn’t see past the backs of the terror twins. As quietly as he could, he ran down the stairs to get a better look, and as he peeked around the corner, the reason for the chaos became clear.
Dom stood in the center of the group, blood soaking through his left sleeve. Even pale and obviously headed toward shock from the blood loss, he looked no less in command, especially when he let out a piercing whistle that had the rest of the men shutting up.
“Let’s not make this a big fucking deal,” he said as he dropped into one of the seats at the table. “Help me get this off.”
Chef took charge, carefully unbuttoning Dom’s shirt and starting to remove it. When he reached the bloody sleeve, Dom grunted in pain, clenching his jaw, but seconds later, the shirt was off.
Chef grabbed a wet towel, wiping off some of the blood. “I think the bullet just grazed you, but this is pretty fuckin’ nasty. We should call Doc.”
“We don’t need to call Doc,” Dom said. “If there’s no bullet, it’s not that bad.”
“Uh, it sure as shit looks that bad. This gash is deep, man.”
“Just put a fucking Band-Aid on it.”
“It needs more than a Band-Aid, Dom.”
“Then get the first-aid kit and figure it out. There’s no need to call Doc for this.”
From where he stood, even Luca could see that Dom’s injury needed more than a patch, and in that moment, a switch was flipped. He was no longer watching someone he hated—he was back in medical school, analyzing and coming up with how to fix someone who needed help. Before Luca realized what he was doing, the side of him that lived to be a doctor took over and he called out, “Wait.”
All eyes turned toward Luca, and he swallowed when he saw they weren’t all friendly ones.
He stepped forward anyway, holding his hand out. “If you don’t call someone to do it right, it’s going to get infected. And it’ll definitely leave a bad scar.”
As they all stared him down, Luca swallowed, wondering why the hell he’d bothered to say anything. Damn the fact that his instincts had taken over. He didn’t care whether Dom’s arm got infected or not. It wasn’t his business. Hell, if the arm fell off, it’d be better for Luca.
Good job, genius.
