Page 55 of Cruel Tyrant

I go for my gun. To hell with this. To hell with negotiating. If he’s only a man then he can die like one too, which means all I need is a single bullet to make this entire situation disappear. But the moment I level my weapon, there’s a shout, and the crowd starts screaming as people run in every direction.

I realize my mistake only when it’s too late.

This whole situation was a trap.

The busker tosses his guitar aside and is kneeling down to get a good line on me. A nearby couple are both drawing guns and aiming them in our direction. Dad’s screaming something, and I’m still aiming at Santoro, but he’s grinning wickedly like he couldn’t care less.

The gunfire starts as Dad slams into me and knocks me to the ground.

It’s chaos. Screaming and shouting. I smell blood in the air, and I recognize some of the nearby voices. Dad’s breath comes ragged as he pins me to the ground, and I manage to roll to the side, grunting with the effort it takes. Dad groans in pain as all around me, the crowd panics and screams. Our guards outflank and kill the Santoro assassins, but it’s chaos, and there’s so much blood.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper as I press my palms against a wound in Dad’s stomach. Blood wells up between my fingers and I try to hold it back. “Simon. Simon!”

My older brother falls to his knees beside us. He’s breathing hard, but he seems unhurt. “How bad?”

“Gut shot. I don’t know what else is wounded.”

“Fuck.” He brushes Dad’s forehead. “You’ll be okay, old man. You’re going to be okay.”

“Get Santoro,” Dad says through clenched teeth.

But when I look up, Santoro is gone, and the pier is emptying out.

Bodies lie scattered on the ground. Some of them are Santoro’s people but a few are innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. I get to my knees, shoving myself up, and hoist Dad onto my shoulder, gritting my teeth against every step.

“Call the doctor,” I bark at Dad’s men. “If you don’t move now, your Don might die.”

Simon clears the way, and we hurry to save our father’s life.

Chapter 33

Stefania

The Bianco family gathers in the hospital waiting room and barely moves while the Don goes into surgery. Their anxiety sits thick like a cloud over everyone’s head, and I do my best to comfort Davide as much as possible, mostly by sitting close next to him and holding his hand.

Only the oldest brother Simon is missing. When I ask Elena why, she shakes her head and looks like an anvil’s sitting on her shoulders. “Someone’s got to run the family. He’d be here if he could.”

Davide sits in the corner of the room and doesn’t speak to anyone, not even his mother when she tries to engage with him. His sister Laura asks him questions to draw him out, but he ignores her too. I stay by his side and hold his hand for hours, not once trying to push him into speaking, because I know that’s not my place. I want to be there for him but I also want to give him as much space as I can, so I settle for something in between. A touch here, a whisper there, with no expectations of a reply. At best, I get small nods and the occasional stare, but he doesn’t push me away, and he doesn’t ask me to stop.

That whole day is a blur. I bring everyone lunch and make sure they’re okay, pushing myself harder than I need to, but I’m the only person in this room who isn’t emotionally devastated. I like Alessandro, but I barely know him, and while I want him to pull through and I’ll feel extremely sorry if he doesn’t, I’m not in danger of losing a father or a husband. Which means I have the bandwidth to take on more, like fetching Freddie a change of clothes, and bugging the nurses for any information.

Freddie is a total mess, alternating between putting on a brave face and crying into her hands. I get her tea and coffee and try to be as comforting as I can, but I’m still a stranger to these people, and I’m so incredibly aware that I’m out of my depth.

But it doesn’t matter. Davide’s my priority, and I make sure to do what I can for him, even if it isn’t much.

When the doctor enters and announces that Alessandro is alive and in recovery, the relief in the room is almost painful. Freddie cries again, though I think out of relief more than grieving, but Davide still will barely look up from the floor. I try to get him to go for a walk with me, but he only grunts and shakes his head.

“He won’t be conscious for some time,” the doctor explains, a middle-aged man with an air of competence about him.

“I’d estimate at least a few hours before anyone can see him. Please, folks, go home and get some rest, and I’ll personally call the second he’s able to take visitors.”

One by one, the family leaves. Elena and Laura go home first; they’re escorted by a whole slew of Bianco soldiers. It takes a while, but I manage to convince Freddie to go home a few hours later when it’s clear that we won’t be able to see the Don anytime soon.

But Davide won’t leave. I can tell this is killing him, and I don’t know how to help. That’s the hardest part, knowing that he’s suffering, but being so totally unable to do anything about it.

And I want to do something. I want to kiss him and tell him it will be okay, but I don’t know that. I lost my father when I was young and while it was one of the most emotionally horrible times in my life, I healed from it and life moved on. That’s what happens with loss. People keep going, plodding forward, stuck in the flow of days and weeks, and even if that grieving never completely goes away like a faint stain on a pale bedspread, it does get to the point where the hurting isn’t agony anymore.

“I started it,” he whispers once his mother is out of the room and we’ve been alone for almost a half hour.

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