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“Drop the needle and tell me the name of the doctor that ordered you to dope her up?” Dom rephrases my question.
“Dr. Walsh. Aiden Walsh, he’s the chair of the emergency department here at the hospital.”
The nurse drops the syringe, and when it hits the floor, I step on it. After the length of several heartbeats, Domenico lets the young man go. Timothy is written in marker on the dry-erase board secured to the wall, indicating which nurse is on duty.
“You’re going to want to leave now, Timothy,” I tell him, getting into his personal space and stepping forward, forcing him to retreat. I continue walking toward him until he’s out of the door and I’m closing it myself.
Turning, I find Domenico with his hand resting against her throat. He’s not choking her. He’s not even applying pressure, but it works to soothe her. She calms, and once again, her body becomes still.
“She stumbled when we were getting off the elevator the other night. I should have known something was wrong. She was covered in blood, but I thought . . .” I breathe, blowing out a harsh breath from my throat. “I thought the blood was Tony’s.”
I go to stand back by the window, bracing my shoulder against the glass and crossing my ankles.
“Walsh is an Irish last name,” Dom says, which we should have realized hours ago. Aiden Walsh is the same motherfucker that sedated her while she was out of our sight getting the MRI.
“You getting the feeling we’re being kept here, or maybe she’s being kept here on purpose?” I ask, more to myself than to Dom.
Do they know we stole all of Fitzgerald’s money?
Ciera didn’t have a concussion, so what reason would she need to stay knocked out? The claustrophobic freak-out in the MRI machine—if that is what that was—is plausible, but why give her so much sedation to keep her out this long?
“You think we’re being set up?” Dom voices aloud, thinking along the same lines as I am.
“Maybe. We did take out the police commissioner’s pseudo nephew or whoever the fuck he was to that high-ranking asshole.” I turn my head from the window to look Dom in the eyes. “I think we need to get out of here and regroup because our little kitten has a lot of explaining to do.”
“Meaning?” he implores.
“She stole millions from her father last night in the length of time that it takes to order a cup of coffee and for it to be handed over by the barista. She then transferred those funds to an international charity for women and children.”
CHAPTER 27
CIERA
Igroan as the throbbing ache in the back of my head intensifies. It’s the worst of all my pains, but the constant itching is going to drive me to the point of insanity.
“Ciera?” Domenico’s voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it, or maybe that’s my clouded mind making me think that.
“She awake?” Krishna sounds farther away than Domenico but still close by.
A chair or something scrapes across the floor, but the sound is like nails on a chalkboard that feel like they’re raking against my skull instead.
A whimper slips past my lips as I lift my eyelids. The overhead light isn’t turned on, thank God, but the room is bright with daylight. Blinking, I look to my right, seeing Krishna watching me from where he stands by the window.
Flicking my gaze to my left, I find Domenico towering over the hospital bed, also watching me. There’s a deep sadness residing in his dark brown eyes, but there is also hatred and anger storming in there as well. He’s doing a crap job at hiding his emotions; if he’s even trying.
But why drop the shield now?
As that question echoes against my thoughts, my mind goes back to the wedding, Lorenzo making me feel less awkward during my own reception, Tony welcoming me into this family as he not so subtly guided me to the tables lined with food that LeAnna and I prepared before the sounds of shots popping off, one right after the other . . .
Tony.
Oh, no.
No. No, no, no.
Tossing the sheet off the lower half of my body, I scramble to my knees and throw my arms around Domenico, despite the dizziness clouding my vision or that I’m probably the last person he wants consoling him.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say, squeezing him like my life depends on it, which I know it does. And really, I should be questioning why I’m even alive right now, but that can wait. Tony Caputo is dead. He took a bullet that was meant for me.
