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“It’s Nino,” Stefano says and passes me his phone.
My hand is shaking as I take the device and stare at the screen. It’s an arm wound. It shouldn’t be serious unless the bullet hit an artery. The shaking of my hand intensifies, and I manage to hit the answer button only on the third try. I position the phone next to my ear and close my eyes.
“Nino?”
“She’s going to be okay.”
I grab the back of the chair and exhale. “How bad?”
“Some muscle damage that should heal fine.”
“She’s expected to have a full recovery? No consequences?”
“They’ll release her tomorrow. Your wife is okay, Boss.”
I cut the call, then turn to look at the bodies of the Irish men strewn all around. Most of them are dead, but there are others still alive, whimpering or panting. Turning my head to the side, I fix my gaze on the man Aldo is holding pressed onto the hood of a car. Fucking Patrick Fitzgerald! He was hiding in his car while the gunfire was raging, and then tried to shoot me when everyone lowered their guard. Only, the bullet hit my wife.
“A knife,” I say without taking my eyes off the Irish mob leader with only a few hundred heartbeats remaining in his pathetic life.
Someone presses the handle of a knife onto my outstretched hand. I take a step forward, bend, and grab the first groaning Irishman I see by his hair. Fitzgerald is staring at me, eyes wide, and I keep my gaze on him as I press the knife to the side of the man’s neck and draw the blade across his throat. Warm blood flows over my hand. The warehouse, which was brimming with shouts and noise, goes silent.
I let the body fall at my feet, step over it, and walk toward the next man. This one is passed out, but he’s still breathing. I grab him by the hair, too, and press the blade to his Adam’s apple.
A strangled sound leaves Patrick’s lips as he tracks my hand with his eyes and watches the blood spray over my arm and shirtfront. When I let the body fall and take another step toward him, Patrick looks up. I take a further step and proceed with creating a path of dead Irishmen, not taking my eyes off his. The terror on his face is delicious. He knows I’msaving the best for last. I smile and take another step. Oh, how I will enjoy filleting the man who hurt the only thing in this world I love.
* * *
I enter the small private hospital that treats my men when Ilaria can’t care for them in the infirmary, and turn toward the hallway on the left. Two nurses at the main desk stand up abruptly, but when I don’t acknowledge them, they sit back down. There’s a piercing pain in my left side. Patrick’s goon probably broke one of my ribs, but I ignore it and keep walking, with Stefano following a few paces behind.
I don’t remember ever being as scared as I was when I saw blood pouring from Milene’s arm. It was as if someone had lodged a knife in my stomach and dragged it upward, opening my chest.
People who see me pass step aside, staring at the blood still covering my arms and hands. It’s a good thing I wore a black shirt for the occasion. It means they can’t see the blood soaked into that, as well.
The doctor who usually treats my men looks up from the chart in his hand and rushes toward me. “Mr. Ajello! What—”
“Back off,” I snap, turn around the corner, and rush down the long hallway toward the door at the end, where Carmelo and Nino stand guard.
“Open the door,” I say.
“Boss. You may want to wash the blood off first.” Nino nods toward my hands. “She may freak out if she sees you like that.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Find me a shirt.”
It takes me five minutes to scrub my hands and arms. The black T-shirt Nino brought for me hides the stains on my chest, which I didn’t bother cleaning. When I throw open the door to Milene’s room, I’m in a semi-presentable state. Outwardly, at least.
“Tore!” Milene sits up in bed and swings her legs over the side.
I grab the metal cart standing at the foot of the bed and squeeze the edge with all my strength.
“Don’t you dare get down from that bed,” I whisper, eyes focused on the bandage around her upper arm and the IV stand next to the bed. She could have died. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. It doesn’t work.
I grip the frame of the cart harder. There’s a shitload of something inexplicable building up inside me, and it feels as though I’m going to explode like a fucking supernova.
“How could you do it?” I ask quietly, then switch to yelling. “How the fuck could you do that! I wanted to die on that chair, knowing you were in the direct line of fire, waiting for a bullet to hit you! Because of me!” I squeeze the cart and launch the thing at the wall behind me. “You. Cannot. Do. That!”
“Tore—”
“No!” I snarl. “Never! Never, Milene! I can’t... I can’t bear even the thought of what could have happened! How the fuck do you expect me to deal with this? You, getting hurt, for me? You will never do that again!” I bury my hands in my hair and pull. “Fuck!”
