Page 60 of Bastard Prince
“I ain’t telling you shit,” he finished, sputtering out a bloody cough.
“Who sent you to try and kill me?” Francesca cut in, her face impassive.
“Shit,” he said, his tone full of regret. “I really wanted to see you blown sky high. Such a waste of a good bomb.”
“Hey!” she shouted, starting to lose patience. “Tell me who sent you. Who would want to fuck with me? Do you know who my family is?”
At that, he closed his eyes, his chest shaking as he released a quiet laugh. “You dumb bitch.” Opening his eyes, he pinned Francesca with a dark look. “Doyouknow who your family is?”
I looked at Francesca, her brows drawn down in confusion. “What does that mean?” she pressed.
But when he went to answer her, another round of coughing only brought up more blood, his chin and cheeks now splattered with it.
“What does that mean?” Francesca repeated more urgently, but as the coughing cut off and his eyes glazed over, there were no answers to be found.
“No,” Francesca said, getting on her knees in the dirt and the glass, prepared to climb inside the wreck. “No, don’t you fucking dare die, you son of a bitch.”
“Frankie,” I said, tucking my gun in my pants and gripping her shoulders. “Frankie, come on. He’s gone. We gotta get outta here, babe.” She looked at me, her face full of anguish, and I could tell that Francesca was nearing her limit. Leading her back to the car, I took her gun and did up her seatbelt before making my way back to my own seat. The sound of sirens reached my ears, someone from the neighborhood likely having called the cops when they heard the crash. If we waited here much longer, someone would show up, and I was in no mood to answer any questions.
I had too many of my own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Francesca
When in doubt, cook.
That was basically the mantra of any good mafia wife, taught to me by my mother and aunts, all the women of the Outfit coming together in times of strife to feed the men who would lead them through the fire.
Well, my time of strife was here, and I was falling back on the old habits and using the time as a way to think.
After Enzo and I had returned to the house early this morning, sleep was no longer an option for either of us. Enzo had immediately launched himself into phone call after phone call, trying to sort out the mess at the gate. He had Lexi hack into the community security system and erase any trace of our presence at the crash site. Then he called Rock and had him come to the house, the two of them reaching out to every contact they had in the city and beyond, trying to find some clue, a single thread we could pull, to unravel the shit-show that was taking place around us.
I tried calling my brother, his phone going directly to voicemail and leaving me worried that whoever was out to get me had uncovered the fact that Antonio was still alive, and once again, my time with my brother would be cut short. After leaving a string of increasingly panicked messages, I decided to back off and let him come to me.
Perhaps I was over reacting.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
My second task was to try and get a hold of Eric, much to Enzo’s dismay. Enzo was certain that Eric was the one who had set all this up, but I wasn’t quite as quick to condemn him.
Sure, Eric had lied to me before—the lie that started this entire situation—but under all the bullshit that had been our relationship, I truly believed that Eric had cared about me. No matter what went down, no matter how angry he may be at me, I couldn’t believe that he would be the one trying to kill me.
Even though his feelings toward me had cost him his position at the Bureau, he had basically destroyed my family, so I thought we were pretty even.
However, regardless of my feelings on the matter, I couldn’t even discuss it with him because Eric wasn’t answering his phone either.
What the fuck was the point of all this technology if no one bothered to use it?
Pushing aside my annoyance for both men and machines, I had jumped in the shower, washing off the stress sweat from last night, before heading to the kitchen and getting started on the mother of all brunches.
Vinnie joined me just as the last of the French toast came off the griddle and went into the warming drawer beneath Enzo’s wall-mounted oven. There were trays of sausage and bacon and a platter of cut fruit spread out over the island, and I had a jug of orange juice and one of apple juice.
“Is all this just for the five of us?” he asked, practically drooling as he eyed the stack of bacon. He looked better this morning, the gash on his forehead looking clean and his eyes were clear and bright.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” I teased. “Can you please go upstairs and get the guys? They’re still holed up in Enzo’s study.” Vinnie nodded, swiping a slice of bacon off the tray with a grin. “I’ll go get Rosa.”
My cousin had seemed more than a little off since George and I had picked her up from the bus station. Granted, I hadn’t spent a lot of time with her, but even still, my normally sweet and shy Rosa was acting very strange.
