Page 3 of Vicious Redemption

I let it roll off my shoulders, giving him a curt nod before my eyes slide to Don Guerra. The don smirks, seeming to revel in his victory. But as insulting as tonight might be to my pride, I think he imagines he’s done more damage than he really has.

Because my vision for Piovosa might have been resting on the hope that I could work with Mayor Romney. But that’s not my only avenue to success. I’m not simple-minded enough to pin all my plans on the success of one business relationship. I have other ways of getting what I want. This just would have been the most convenient—and economic.

He might have slowed me down. But all he’s really done is expose his family’s lack of loyalty. Don Guerra has revealed his duplicitous nature. Now, my family has a far stronger force than his—especially since the Fiore and Valencia families have fallen in line.

With the number of families under the Moretti umbrella now, it will only be a matter of time before I crush the Guerras. Their family might have been a formidable rival once, but I’ve drained them of their reinforcements. And now they’ve proven our alliance is nothing but a flimsy facade.

I see no point in honoring it.

My best captain and right-hand man, Johnny, steps close as we file into the hallway, and glancing behind him, he keeps his voice low. “Several Moretti men got shot before the Guerras were subdued,” he states, his tone flat and dripping with vitriol. “Included in that number is Don Moretti.”

I stop short, my hands balling into fists at the newest revelation. Johnny stops with me, his jaw setting as he waits for my command.

“Where is he?” I demand.

“He was rushed straight to the hospital. It’s bad.”

“The Guerras will pay for this,” I grit through my clenched teeth.

Johnny gives a curt nod, the same conviction in his eyes, and next to me, one of my other top captains, Rasco, mutters his agreement.

“Take me to my father,” I command, making a beeline for the front door. “Prepare the men for plan B. We’ll move directly to it. And as of now, no one is to speak to Tia—not even the help—about anything. She’s cut off. I want to talk to her before anyone else does.”

“I’ll see that it’s done,” Johnny confirms.

Outside, a car waits for me, and I slip inside. Rasco joins me as Johnny takes charge of the remaining men. Releasing the button of my suit jacket, I settle onto the soft leather and remove my bowtie. The fine silk fabric is suddenly strangling in my frustration.

The SUV rolls smoothly and swiftly down the road toward the hospital as Rasco gives me a brief summary of what took place while I was spending a romantic evening dancing and hopelessly falling for the charms of my captivating and deceitful young bride.

“They came in right at the shift change,” Rasco states. “Don Guerra must have been watching for it—definitely someone on the inside—because they timed it perfectly. One of the guests feigned a heart attack, delaying the relief’s arrival.”

“They stopped to help the guest?” I ask, my tone coldly disapproving. We didn’t have the luxury of showing unnecessary humanity tonight. And it cost us dearly.

Rasco nods gravely. But when I don’t push further, he continues with his story. “His men used the momentary distraction to overrun the front doors. Felix and Dom were both hit. I don’t think the Guerras anticipated our Kevlar, though, because neither was wounded fatally. Your father, on the other hand…” Rasco shakes his head. “They shot him as soon as he gave orders. I suspect their mission was to take out the man in charge. Likely, you were the real target, seeing as you normally take operation lead.”

“Fucking bastards. They better hope he doesn’t die. Because if he does, nothing on god’s green earth is going to stop me from removing Don Guerra’s tongue before I put a bullet between his eyes. I don’t give a fuck if his daughter is my wife—or the mother of my child.”

As soon as the Escalade pulls up to the curb, I step out. Striding into the hospital, I approach the reception desk like I own the place—which I practically do, seeing as my family has funded several wings of Piovosa General.

“Don Moretti, where is he?” I demand as soon as I reach the front counter.

“Oh, um, s-s-surgery,” the receptionist stutters, her eyes growing wide behind her round wire-rimmed glasses as she instantly recognizes me.

“I need an update on his condition. Now.”

“Of course, signore,” she gasps, jumping out of her chair to scurry toward the door leading into the emergency room. The bookish girl is gone before I blink, seeming driven by the cloud of fury surrounding me.

Moments later, the head nurse strides through the automated door, her eyes landing on me. “Mr. Moretti,” she greets me, striding forward in gray-blue scrubs, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Her distinctly Midwestern accent and form of address are unique in the vastly Italian New England colonial town, and it immediately calms my heart rate.

“How is he?” I demand, cutting to the chase as she meets my eyes with steady blue ones.

“He’s in surgery right now. He took a bullet to the abdomen and suffered some severe internal bleeding. We won’t know the extent of the damage until the doctor finishes sewing him up.” Her voice is as even as her gaze, delivering a pragmatic answer that somehow eases my tension even when she’s delivering less-than-encouraging news.

“How long will that take?”

“It depends on how much damage the surgeon finds. Your father’s been under for nearly half an hour. But he was prepped and taken in as quickly as he arrived, given the nature of his injury, which gives him his best chance. I assure you, we’re doing all that we can to save his life. He’s in good hands.”

Furious that my father is on a surgery table at all, I comb my fingers through my hair. “Thank you, Infermiera.” Without waiting for a response, I turn and start to pace.

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