Page 39 of Tide of Treason
I stared at him, unblinking. “Surgery.”
“Yes.”
“What are the surgical options?”
“Well . . .” He typed something on his computer, fingers tapping with the agonizing certainty of a man who got bullied in school and took up medicine for revenge. “The usual is a—”
He rattled one long, overly complicated phrase that I could barely decipher. It sounded a lot like surgicalintervention, and I got the distinct impression there was a very real possibility I’d end up with a second butthole. Which, if we’re being honest, might have been more functional than my actual one, all things considered.
I closed my eyes. Briefly entertained the idea of never opening them again. “Right. That’s fantastic. Thank you, doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”
On my way out, I ignored the wide-eyed receptionist, who no doubt heard the entire exchange through the absolutely not soundproof walls of this third-rate clinic. She made the grave mistake of offering me a plastic cup and some gloves.
I turned my head. Stared at her.
She swallowed. “For when you . . . you know . . . check for it.”
I took the cup. Walked out.
I came hometo blood on the marble.
Not unusual.
What was unusual, however, was the fact that I didn’t have to step over a dead body on my way in—just the splattered remnants of a very much alive one. A trail of thick, glistening red stretched from the foyer to the back patios. My heels clicked over it, the sound swallowed by the chaos beyond the glass doors.
“THAT BRAZILIAN BASTARD SHOT ME! IN MY OWN FUCKING HOME!”
His home? I rolled my eyes. Brando didn’t own shit. The only reason he had a seat at the table was because he’d lucked into being the don’s brother instead of some greaseball slinging expired deli meat in Queens. Currently, he was sprawled across Nonna’s chaise lounge with one chunky thigh wrapped in what I suspected was an Hermès table runner. Burgundy blossomed through the silk, staining the horse-bits a lurid rust. For the briefest, unchristian moment, I mourned for couture.
Elio met me just inside the doorway, flipping a poker chip between his fingers. I recognised it. Black with gold trim, high-roller currency fresh from our casino.
“Took you long enough.”
“I was at the doctor.” I slipped off my coat, draping it over a chair. “Checking on something.”
He eyed me. “You sick?”
“No. Just digesting.”
Elio frowned, but before he could ask, Francesco leaned in. “You missed the fun. Lucius shot Brando.”
I slid him a look. “And?”
He blinked. “And?”
I sighed, toeing off my heels by the doorway. “And why the fuck is he still breathing?”
Francesco grinned, running a tongue over his teeth. “Because your papà’s too busy creaming his slacks over how well the casino trial run went. That means attempted murder is just another fucking aperitivo at Sunday dinner.”
Made sense.
Elio exhaled through his nose, flipping the chip, catching it. “Brando started running his mouth.”Clink. Flip.“Something about how the business isn’t what it used to be. How Enzo should be careful about who he lets marry into the family.”Clink. Flip.“How Lucius is an outsider. A street rat.”Clink. Flip.“And, you know. The other thing.”
“The other thing?”
“The part where he called Viviana confused and said it was a goddamn shame she had to be married off to a . . . what was it again? Ahalf-breed with no real bloodline?”
My lips pulled into a tight line.
