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“Shh,” Leo says firmly, pressing the straw back between my lips. “Take a sip.”
I take a sip, but my eyes finally focus beyond Leo as a familiar scent wafts over. Sandro stands in the doorway. I watch him approach my bed. Leo—very deliberately—ignores him.
“I’m glad you are awake,” Sandro begins.
Leo turns around to look at him. I can’t see Leo’s face, but I see Sandro’s.
After a moment, Sandro says through clenched teeth, “Julian, I shouldn’t have doubted you about the Esposito’s murder. I have come to believe someone else must have been responsible. Jack pointed out that the blood seems to be congealing by the time those pictures were taken. That, with the lack of blood on you…” He shrugs. “I jumped to the conclusion the photographer wanted me to.”
“That’s not an apology,” Leo growls.
“Who do you think it was?” I ask, my mind starting to clear despite the morphine haze.
“I assume it was the Bernardis,” Sandro says. Leo is turning to put down the glass of water, finally, but I see him pull a face at Sandro’s accusation. “They must have killed Vinnie Esposito and taken those photos to make you look guilty. Perhaps they’re trying to provoke a Castellani-Esposito war—though it’s more subtle than I’d usually give Aldo credit for,” he adds with a cool glance at Leo.
“No,” I say decisively. “I don’t believe the Bernardi Family is responsible for Vincenzo.”
“Julian’s right,” Leo chimes in. “I might be on the outs with them now, but I never once heard Vinnie’s name get whispered about. And a kill like that...” He shakes his head. “People talk.”
Sandro looks a little more convinced by Leo’s argument than he did by my plain statement. “If it’s not the Bernardis, then who? I need an answer before things escalate further.”
“Never mind about Vincenzo,” I say impatiently, struggling to sit up in bed. “There are more important things to worry about.”
“Yeah, like your health,” Leo snaps, trying to make me lie down again. “You,” he barks at someone sitting in the corner, scrolling on their phone. The man jumps, looking up. “Get over here and do your fucking job. Julian wants to sit up.”
The man puts down his phone at once and hurries over. In between growls from Leo and impatient glares from Sandro, he gets enough pillows behind my back so that I can sit up comfortably.
“You need to leave,” I tell him when he’s done.
“Julian,” Sandro sighs. “You’re being rude to someone who saved your life.”
“He didn’t save my life. I did that myself, back at the docks. And hedoesneed to leave, brother, or he’s going to hear some information that will be very dangerous for him.”
Sandro stares at me for a moment before turning to the now-frightened medic. “Leave us.”
He scampers, although Leo grumbles under his breath about it.
“Well?” Sandro says. “What could possibly be more important than the Espositos waging war on us?”
“Listen to me,” I begin, gripping the bedsheet hard. “This whole thing, including the war with the Espositos, is about who killed my mother.”
Silence falls over the room. Even Leo seems taken aback.
“Hear me out,” I go on, before Sandro has a chance to tell me that my mother’s murder isn’t important. “Vincenzo’s killing wasn’t the only recent attempt to sabotage my relationship with you and the Family. Was it, brother?”
Sandro takes the medic’s chair and pulls it over to sit next to me, opposite Leo, who scowls at him. “Go on,” Sandro says.
“For a while there, it was Leo following me around. But evenafterhe approached me with the offer from his father,someone was still following me. And it wasn’t you, was it?” I ask Leo. He shakes his head. “And I was shot at on the docks, wasn’t I?” I go on. “And let’s not forget those two Castellani soldiers who tried to kill me.”
“Alright, but what does this have to do with anything?” Sandro’s impatience is palpable, but I don’t plan to rush through this.
“Someone is trying to undermine me. Someone wants me dead, or incapacitated, or…put back in those cells.”
For the first time, Sandro’s eyes drop.
“But why?” I go on. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Well,Ithink it’s because they know I’m investigating my mother’s murder—and thatyou’vegiven your blessing to my vendetta. Someone,” I say with a slow smile, “doesn’t want me to find out who they are.”
Sandro leans back in his chair, his expression troubled. The tension in the room is only broken by the faint sound of birds chattering softly outside. It’s dusk again.
