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I watched him closely with worry in my heart. As much as sometimes I’d hated Rocco Moretti, as many times as I’d cursed his name, I didn’t know what I would do if he ever died. That meant something, and I knew it, but I didn’t want to think about it right now. I would just focus on getting Rocco better.
12
ROCCO
I didn’t wake up for nearly thirteen hours after I fell asleep on the hotel bed, until Allegra woke me finally. My head throbbed and my side throbbed and it felt like I’d been in a coma for a year in a hospital, instead of just lying on the hotel bed with a stitched-up bullet wound on my side. “You need to eat,” she said in a hushed whisper.
I swallowed, but it felt like something was stuck in my throat, because my mouth was so dry. “Water,” I croaked.
Allegra disappeared for a moment, returning with water with ice in it. It tasted like heaven and I chugged it down, asking for another. Allegra gave me another but then she frowned when I drank it down. “My stomach is growling,” she said. “We need to get something to eat that’s not just vending machines.”
I looked over at the side table and saw chocolate bar wrappers, honey bun wrappers, and cans of soda strewed across it. I licked my lips, trying to get some saliva going, and spoke. “I’ll head out to get us something,” I said sleepily.
Allegra’s frown deepened. “You can’t drive,” she argued. “You need to give me some money, let me go. I’ve already taken all your dollar bills for the machine.”
I shook my head and groaned because it hurt. I must be dehydrated, and I might even have the start of a fever. Shit. I needed to call the doctor, and soon. “Hand me my phone,” I ordered, and Allegra didn’t argue, handing it to me. I made a call to Jimmy Croaker. He wasn’t the doctor who served Enzo; I couldn’t trust him. I had a feeling that Ricardo was behind this, and I was going to find out what was going on soon enough. Jimmy Croaker wasn’t his real name; he was a wiseguy who’d dropped out of med school, and a friend of mine. He kept a little business going under the radar, taking care of the wiseguys in the area when they got injured.
“Croaker,” he answered.
I swallowed again before I spoke. “It’s Rush,” I told him, using my prison nickname since that was where I met him.
“Rush? Holy hell, it’s been a dog’s ear,” he said, his Irish lilt obvious over the line. He was involved with both the Irish and Italian mafia and he didn’t take sides, which was why I needed him.
“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “Need your services, Croaker. I’ll send you an address.”
He paused. “How bad?”
I looked down at the wound that Allegra had dressed in bandages. Blood was blooming through it. “It’s not good,” I said dryly.
“Text me your address. I’ll be there soon.”
“I don’t have to tell you that this is confidential, do I, Croaker?”
Croaker scoffed. “Please, Rush. We’ve known each other long enough now, haven’t we?”
“Noted,” I said simply and hung up the phone. I turned to Allegra. “Doc’s on his way.”
“Can we trust him?” she asked.
I smiled wryly. “As much as we can trust anyone.”
Allegra huffed out a breath. “I need to be home. I need to call my father, at least, warn him—”
“You know they’ll have the phone bugged.”
“Who?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but my money’s on Ricardo.”
“How can we know for sure? There’s half a dozen guys who want to off my father,” she said, and I knew she was right. Romeo Rossi had made plenty of both friends and enemies in the years that he’d been active, after all.
“We’ll find out,” I said, not giving her any more information. “In the meantime, why don’t you order some pizza?” I took out my phone and handed it to her. “It’s just a burner.” She licked her lips and I could hear her stomach growling. I laughed softly but it hurt my side so it turned into a groan. “Hungry?”
“I haven’t eaten anything but chocolate since we stopped here,” she whined.
I gestured to my phone with a nod. “Order whatever you like.” My own stomach felt queasy, which probably wasn’t a good sign. I might have an infection already, and I cursed the man who had shot me. I hadn’t known him, but I was hoping with a description of the two men, Jimmy Croaker could give me an I.D. He was good for things like this. He didn’t take sides, but if he did, he’d be on mine. We’d been cellies for three of the five years I was inside, when I wasn’t in solitary, and we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. He told me that three years of med school had given him a whole career in the underground, and I’d told him I worked for Enzo Gallo. Croaker had good experiences with Enzo, but not so much with Ricardo, so I knew he’d understand my predicament.
Croaker arrived before the food came and I sighed in relief, shifting on the bed with a wince. He knelt down next to me, opening his bag, and looked at the wound, taking off the bandages with a low whistle. “Through and through?”
