Page 73 of Gin & Trouble

Iris hurried into the Batcave with Marco’s bodyguards on her heels.

A big guy, with an even bigger gun on his hip, stalked toward Marco. He spoke in Italian, but otherwise, he relayed the same information as Kincaid—with one major exception. “Dahlia Calhoun was also hit.”

Marco and I exchanged glances—his was stoic but I was sure I looked like I was a heartbeat away from a breakdown. We’d trained for scenarios like this since we were preschoolers. Assassination attempts were as much a part of mafia families as cannolis at Christmas. Hell, we’d been through a similar situation three years before when our brother Joe and his wife were murdered.

Same hurried phone calls.

Same confusion.

Same rush to the hospital.

I prayed this time would have a different outcome. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to another brother, and Leo’s son sure as hell wasn’t ready to lose his mom.

Iris rested her hand on my arm. “Go. I’ll stay here and tell Frankie what’s going on when she comes back.”

“Thanks.”

Although her eyes were wider than normal and her skin paler, she’d taken the news much better than I would have expected.

Marco? Not so much. He pressed his mouth into a tight line. “Abruzzo isn’t here?”

That he’d used her last name pissed me off. No matter how it looked, there was no way Frankie had anything to do with Enzo getting shot.

“She had an errand.” I turned away from him, gave Iris a quick hug, and headed for the door. Phone in hand I called Frankie’s cell.

No answer.

Shit. Where are you?

I hopped into the back of a waiting SUV and nodded for the driver to go. There was no sense in waiting for Marco to catch up. Emergency protocols dictated we couldn’t ride in the same vehicle or even enter the hospital through the same entrance.

The Secret Service had nothing on mafia security teams.

* * *

Because of thenumber of Marchionnis who’d shown up, or the fact that my family had donated millions to the medical school, we were corralled in a private room. While I appreciated the gesture, the main emergency department waiting area was probably more peaceful than a dozen or so scared and stressed out Italians.

My mother paced back and forth, giving her rosary beads a work out. Between her wringing hands and her death grip on the thin chain, I feared it would snap. No big deal for the average American Catholic, but Evelyn Marchionni had grown up in Sicily. She had more superstitions than a major league baseball team.

A broken rosary would be a bad omen. A message from God that Enzo was doomed—and more unnecessary drama than any of us could handle.

I stood and drew her into an embrace. “He’s going to be okay, Ma.”

Shivering against my chest, she whispered, “Do you recognize this room? This is the same room we learned Joe and Rebecca were gone. And it’s Friday. They died on a Friday.”

“Ma, you of all people know we have to have faith.” I hadn’t spent much time with her over the previous year. She’d done some rather underhanded things to keep me and my brothers in the mafia. Part of me had a difficult time forgiving her, but a bigger part understood why she’d done what she’d done.

Going legit had, at least in part, led to our current situation. Prior to getting out of the Cosa Nostra, we’d all had security teams and protocols that kept us alive. Joe and Rebecca’s assassination had been an anomaly, a wrong place at the wrong time, and the bad-guy-got-lucky type situation.

Two shootings in the same location within such a short time frame never would have happened. Enzo’s team would have had him under lock and key until they knew it was safe. This sort of thing was no coincidence. It likely meant whoever had done this was determined, very well paid, or both.

My mom made the sign of the cross, kissed her index finger, and drew a tiny cross on my mouth. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Where’s Shanna?”

She’d made no secret how she felt about Enzo’s wife. Even standing in a hospital waiting room with my brother fighting for his life, Evelyn Marchionni made a sour face at the mention of the other woman’s name. “With Dahlia Calhoun. The girl was barely grazed. She’s fine, but Shanna would rather coddle her friend than be with her husband’s family.”

Can you blame her?

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