Authors: Renee Rose
“His skull is fractured and there’s swelling of the brain. He’s in a coma now,” she said, her voice breaking on the word “coma.”
Joey opened his arms and drew his sister-in-law against his broad chest. Carmen fell apart, choking on a sob. Helpless, Sophie turned to Doña Teresa to offer her an embrace.
“They’re doing a brain scan. I’m going to stay and wait for the results.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Joey said immediately.
The four of them took seats in the waiting room, where the drone of CNN on the television had turned the occupants into zombies. Joey draped an arm around her shoulders, his fingers idly stroking her hair. It felt so natural, as if they were a long-married couple handling a family tragedy together. Even though he was a victim of this tragedy, he radiated strength, power, calm leadership. If this were her emergency to face, rather than his, she’d want Joey La Torre beside her.
“Thank you for coming, Soph,” Joey murmured, as if he’d been thinking the same thing. “It means a lot to me.”
She looked up, drawn into his somber gaze. She lowered her head to his shoulder, finding a nook to nestle it in a signal of solidarity.
She woke to the sound of Joey’s gentle voice. “Sophie. Go home.”
“No. I’m staying here with you,” she said, glancing at Carmen and his mother, who dozed slumped in her chair. “All of you.”
“I appreciate that, but you’d be more use getting some sleep and helping Carmen with the kids tomorrow. There’s nothing you can do here tonight, baby.”
She opened her mouth and he touched her lips with his finger, his face weary.
“Don’t argue.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “Will you keep me posted?” When he nodded, she said, “You should come see me this week.”
His eyes lifted.
“I could do some energy work on your ribs, to help them heal. I can fit you in any day that works for you.”
His face closed as if he’d absorbed a wound.
Nuts.
He’d thought she meant
see
her this week. In a different capacity.
“I’d like that,” he said, his expression sad. “Gimme a few days to see how things shake out here.”
Seeing him so defeated, so worn and bruised and weary, made her kick herself for hurting him further. She wanted to share his burden.
Chapter Eight
“I was wrong,” his mother said when she’d gone. “She does love you.”
Joey shook his head dully. “No, you were right.” It just wasn’t possible for him to be the man she wanted. At this moment, he had twenty guys waiting for orders to move against the Matrangas and no proof of whether they were responsible. He was a pussy if he didn’t act swiftly, but if he made the wrong choice, he put them all in danger of another massacre.
And he was a pussy regardless. Because he’d made it through his entire 39 years without putting a contract on anyone and damned if he didn’t still want to keep his conscious clean. In fact, other than the hit he completed to be “made,” he had avoided being directly responsible for any deaths.
But now it was hopeless. The detective had been right--if his brother died, it would be between him and Carlo, the consigliere for running the Family, which meant he’d either be boss, or underboss, neither of which appealed to him.
The emptiness he felt at the moment went beyond his worry for Al or his anguish over Vito, Lou, and Mario. It was about his own dead soul--a life he didn’t choose and didn’t want.
With Sophie he had seen a glimpse of something else. Something special. He could be a different man with her. But no--it was impossible now.
He sank into the chair next to his mother, aching, bruised and weary. “Go home, Ma,” he said heavily. “I’ll let you know what the brain scan turns up.”
It was a sign of how old his mother was getting that she agreed, rising heavily from her chair. He walked her out to her Cadillac and helped her in, assuring her he would call as soon as he heard anything. He met Sammy in the lot, driving in. Like Joey, Sammy hadn’t been in the poker room at the time of the explosion, because he’d had some managerial issues to handle in the club. He’d been a real help getting their employees and customers out of the burning building with minimal injuries.
Sammy waved him over to his car. “I got a new batch of cell phones. Don’t know if you still have yours, but I figure we all better change them up again, anyway.”
“Yeah, mine was in the club. Thanks.”
They used cell phones modified to make them “tap proof” and GPS removed for safety. They bought them in large batches--fifty at a time, requiring the entire crew to change phones and numbers on a frequent basis. He took one and immediately texted his new number to Joe Perez, an FBI agent who wasn’t above selling them information when he had it. If he had anything on the bomb, he would send it in exchange for a wire transfer payment to his offshore account.
“How’s Al?”
“Alive. Are the new numbers loaded on here?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll call a meeting, noon at Paisanos, but if you see anyone before then, tell them I want every shred of evidence we can get that links this to the Matrangas. And they should put the word out that retribution will be swift and merciless.”
“It had better be, or everyone will think you’re not fit to lead,” Sammy warned.
He lifted his eyebrows. “What are you saying?” he demanded.
Sammy shrugged. “Nothing. Just that you’d better show you’re in charge. Make the Matrangas sorry, you know? What?”
His temper snapped and he snatched Sammy up by the collar of his shirt. “You got a question about who’s in charge, here?” he snarled.
For one electrifying moment, he thought Sammy would fight back, breaking chain of command and opening the organization up to chaos. A million thoughts ran through his head--thoughts a boss had, about who would need to be whacked to restore dominance. Who could be cowed through intimidation. Who he could depend on as an ally. And underneath the thoughts, ran the loudest one. He didn’t want any of this. He didn’t want to be in charge.
Sammy held his hands up, leaning his head away from Joey’s bared teeth. “No, I got no question. Of course you’re in charge. Sorry. You know what you’re doing.”
He stared into Sammy’s eyes, wondering just how deep his partner’s resentment toward him ran. Deep enough to blow up his own club? He slowly released his hold on Sammy’s collar, looking at him suspiciously.
“How do you think they got the bomb inside Boom Booms, Sammy?”
Sammy didn’t miss the insinuation and his chest puffed out defensively. “I dunno. If you hadn’t prohibited security cameras from that room, we might already know.”
A chill ran across his forearms, making the hairs stand on end. Maybe Sammy had already been thinking about it. But it sounded like a prepared defense.
He texted the capos about the meeting and stayed with Carmen until dawn, when they finally got word the brain scan looked okay. What remained was for Al to rest in the hospital and wait for him to come out of the coma, presumably when the swelling in his brain eased. He drove Carmen to her home, then fell into bed but he couldn’t sleep, his mind turning over the bombing, looking at it from all angles.
The bomb placement inside his club, in a private room didn’t sit right with him. It hadn’t been a vehicle chassis anyone might access. It pointed at an inside job. It meant it had to have been someone who showed up for poker night, or an employee, or Sammy. So the Matranga organization might have a rat in the group, or it wasn’t the Matranga’s at all. He considered the various motivations there might be to get rid of all five of them--because he and Al should’ve been in there at the time.
He hid his head under the pillow. Everything rode on him figuring it out.
He called the hospital when he woke and learned Al was still in a coma.
At Paisanos he geared up to make a good show because Sammy was right--it was imperative to appear like he had control, had a plan, and was not taking shit from anyone. He owed it to Al to hold the reins firmly until his recovery. And he had no desire to get a bullet in the back of his head from anyone who thought he could lead better.
Two days passed with Al remaining in his coma and no evidence turning up about the bomb. Even though it was like the itch that only becomes worse when scratched, he couldn’t help but take Sophie up on a treatment. It was a chance to see her, and hell, he could use some distraction at the moment.
He drove to her studio, only to find her with gray circles under her eyes and hectic color in her cheeks. He touched the back of his hand to her forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
“Yeah, I might be coming down with something.”
“Might be?” He made a scoffing noise. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
Her shoulders slumped and a helpless expression appeared on her face. “I just have one client after you and I can go home and rest.”
“Fuck that. Call your client and cancel. I’m taking you home.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No, I really can’t cancel.” Her eyes slid to an appointment book lying open on her desk. He picked it up. “Come on, let’s go,” he said firmly, opening the door. “Get in the car.”
Either she was sick enough or he was firm enough that she didn’t argue this time, just meekly walked out of the office and stood looking lost as he took her keys to lock up.
“I knew you shouldn’t have stayed at the hospital that night,” he muttered. “You probably caught some nasty virus. And the lack of sleep insured it would take.” He led her to his car and opened the door for her, helping her in and shutting the door.
When he settled behind the wheel, she said, “You don’t have to do this, Joey. You have far too much on your plate to be worrying about me.”
But worrying about her was a total relief after the agony of dealing with the organization that week. And a virus was something he could handle.
He drove her home and opened the door with her key. “I’m making a copy of this key,” he informed her.
“You’re not my boyfriend, Joey.”
“Maybe not, but I’m looking after you, and I need a key.”
She blinked at him, then shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “Do you ever stop pushing?”
He shook his head and led her to the bedroom. “You get in bed, I’ll get you some Tylenol--where is it?”
She groaned. “I don’t keep it.”
“I’ll go get some.”
“No, I mean I don’t use it. I could’ve just popped some Tylenol today to get through the day, but I believe fevers serve a purpose--they burn off the virus.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Right. You’re into holistic healing. Okay...how about some tea?”
She brightened. “Tea would be great. It’s in the second drawer next to the refrigerator.”
“Which kind?”
“Ginger, please,” she said, collapsing on the bed.
She couldn’t believe Joey was tucking her in bed and making her tea when he had a literal war on his hands out on the street. It didn’t make sense.
“Here you go, I put a little honey in it,” he said, returning with a steaming mug of minttea.
“Mmm, thank you.” The tea soothed her swollen tonsils.
He kicked off his shoes and settled next to her on the bed, opening her appointment book and pulling out his cell phone.
“I can do it,” she said reaching for them.
He pulled them out of her reach. “Clearly you need a little help.”
She chewed a fingernail, nervous he might be too curt or say something rude to her client.
“Hello, Darla? Yes, I’m calling for Sophie Palazzo. She is feeling under the weather, so I’m canceling her appointments...Yes, she wouldn’t want you to catch it… of course, of course. Sure, I can reschedule you.” He flipped the pages in her book to the following week. “How about next week at the same time? Okay, great. I have you down. Thank you.”
She stared at him, her jaw hanging open. He grinned. “You didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
There he went, calling her on her prejudice again.
“I could call her back and tell her she’d better book with you every week or I’ll slash her tires.”
She smacked him with the back of her hand, smiling ruefully. “I just never expected you to play secretary.”
“I prefer to think of myself as your ‘handler,’” he said, straightening his collar.
She laughed, which turned into a fit of coughing.
“I’m canceling tomorrow’s appointments, too.”
She didn’t argue, just cast him a grateful look. “You’re something else, La Torre,” she muttered, snuggling deeper in the covers.
He settled himself next to her, staring up at the ceiling. “I figured out which musical we are.”
“You did?” she giggled, loving that he actually knew musicals and could use them as metaphor.
“
Grease
. I’m John Travolta and you’re Olivia Newton John.” He rolled over and looked at her. “You were just sampling a little ‘bad boy’ action with me, weren’t you?”
Her mouth felt dry and she sat back up to sip on the tea again, stalling an answer.
“You never meant me to be the guy you’d settle down with. Not the safe guy you’d love, but the dangerous one who makes your pulse race.”
She felt sweaty and clammy. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn’t. He was dead on.
When she didn’t answer he nodded grimly. “I’m the only guy you know who actually would take off his belt and spank a girl for real, not because she wanted me to.”Her already heated face grew even warmer. She couldn’t answer, but it didn’t matter, Joey could already see his words hit home.
He rolled to his back again, staring at the ceiling. “You are something different to me, too. I knew, I just knew right away I wanted you--for keeps. There are things you know in your head and there are things you know from your gut. I knew in my gut you belonged to me.”
The words “you belonged to me” both offended and stirred her. The idea of “belonging to” any man, and especially a dangerous a man like Joey made her core fill with heat.
“I think my gut knows something about you, but my head won’t let me hear it,” she whispered as a confession.
He leaned up on an elbow and stroked her cheek. “Then give it time, little girl. Don’t write us off until you’re sure of the message, okay?”