Page 44 of The Thief

“Yes. I talked to one of the doctors treating him. If he makes it through the next five hours, they’re hopeful he’ll pull through.”

Damn it. I shouldn’t have gotten Rizzi involved. Venice is a busy port, and my people couldn’t search every single container on every single ship, so I’d seized upon the logical solution. But now Sandro is in the hospital, fighting for his life. All because he allied with me.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

“The men that accosted Rizzi. . .”

“We have them on camera; they were too stupid to conceal their faces. Tomas recognized one of them; he’s Venetian, a troublemaker who occasionally competes in the underground fight rings. We can share the tape with the carabinieri, or?—”

“No.” I take a deep, steadying breath, but it does nothing to calm the rage simmering through me. “They’ve forfeited their right to live. Question them, find out who hired them, and then kill them. And Leo, call me as soon as you have another update from the hospital.”

* * *

Rizzi pulls through.I go to see him Friday night as soon as the doctor pronounces that he’s ready for visitors. “He’s in a lot of pain,” the doctor warns me. “You have five minutes before we’re going to sedate him again.”

I nod. “That’s fine.” I’m not here to question Rizzi for information about his assailants; I’m here to apologize to the man for getting him involved in my fight and to promise him that I’m going to protect him and his family from any further attacks.

Rizzi’s not alone when I enter his room; his heavily pregnant wife is sitting next to him, her hand linked with his. She jumps to her feet when she sees me. “Signor Moretti, I didn’t expect you?—”

Rizzi turns his head and sees me. “Saba,” he says, his voice roughened with pain. “Can you give us a minute alone?”

She glances at me and then at him, then leaves quietly. Once she closes the door behind her, Rizzi looks at me, barely recognizable as the man I know.

“Moretti,” he says in greeting.

His face is swollen and discolored, one eye sealed shut, the other bloodshot and rimmed in purple. A thick bandage covers his brow. His ribs are taped, and his left arm rests in a sling. Bruises bloom across his chest and stomach like dark ink beneath the skin. His nose is broken and his jaw badly bruised, but he can still talk, though every word scrapes out rough and pained.

“Sandro.” I clench my hands into fists. “I’m sorry. I want to promise you?—”

He cuts me off before I can assure him it won’t happen again. My men will work around the clock if they need to, but nobody is going to get attacked again. “Before they hit me, they wanted me to pass on a message. If you don’t call off the searches, they promised they would come after my family next. My wife, my little girl.” He fixes me with a glare. “Do you have any loved ones, Moretti? Do you understand?”

I picture Lucia on my desk, wearing a pair of tiny green panties and nothing else, her head thrown back, her eyes glazed with lust. “Yes,” I tell him. If she’s hurt because of me, if it’s her in this hospital bed, beaten to within an inch of her life, I’d lose it. The streets of Venice would run with blood.

“I do. But I’m not going to let that happen.” I move forward and rest my hand on his. “The men that did this to you are dead. Your family will be safe, and nobody else is going to get hurt. I promise you this. You have my word.”

A nurse bustles in before he can respond. “It’s time for your medication, Sandro,” she says cheerfully. “Say bye to your visitor now.”

Rizzi’s gaze rests on me. “I promise,” I repeat. “I will protect them.”

He gives me a short nod. The nurse injects him with a sedative for his pain, and his eyes fall shut shortly after.

Saba Rizzi is outside the hospital room, drinking tea from a paper cup. She straightens when she sees me, her shoulders tense.

She wants to yell at me. She wants to scream that what happened to her husband is my fault, and if she were to vent her fury to my face, I would stand here and take it. Because she’s right: this is my fault.

But she doesn’t. “Signor Moretti, thank you for visiting,” she says, her voice subdued. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

A sour feeling grows in my stomach. She should tell me to fuck off, but her husband’s path to recovery is long. The family will need help, and she’s afraid that if she antagonizes me, she won’t get that help.

“Where is your daughter?”

“I sent her to school,” she replies. “She doesn’t know about her father. I didn’t want to tell her in case. . .” Her voice breaks. “I didn’t know if Sandro was going to make it.”

Guilt sloshes my insides. “I’m sorry,” I say hollowly. “I’ve ordered guards at Meron’s school, and I’ve arranged for all your bills for the next year to come to me. All Sandro has to do is focus on getting better.”

Relief fills her face, and she starts to thank me, but I can’t stand there and take her gratitude. I cut her off as quickly as I can and leave.

Outside the hospital, I take a deep breath. Seeing Rizzi in hospital was the bucket of water to the face that I needed. If this war escalates—and it will—the Russians aren’t just going to target the people who work for me. They’re going to come after my loved ones.

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