Page 30 of Sin City Obsession (De Salvo Empire #1)
Chapter fifteen
Don Cavallo
Sunday passed in a blur of too-bright lights, the inescapable burning aroma of antiseptic, and remembered gunshots.
Rocco Cavallo Senior had taken three bullets from an assassin lying in wait in his office at Cavallo’s Casino & Hotel. His personal guard—who was always with him—took five. The security guards stationed in the hall had split their focus between attempting lifesaving aide and pursuing the shooter.
The shooter had forced the entire debacle to go public by blowing his own head off in the middle of the goddamn casino. After that, the chaos expanded, spilling onto the streets and all over social media.
Rocco Cavallo Senior had been shot, and nearly slain, on a Sunday morning in the middle of June.
His dedicated guard had shielded him from the worst of it, at the cost of his life.
It was hours before anyone knew whether or not Senior would survive.
Two of the three shots had entered his torso.
Only one went all the way through. The emergency surgery had done as much damage on his overall health as the bullets themselves.
And with the weight of that hanging over his head, Rocco Cavallo II found himself being grilled by police.
One of his least favorite things. He might have found it amusing that for once he was being wholly honest about where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and who could vouch for him …
under other circumstances. He’d even offered to help expedite his phone records so they could verify his story.
“Don’t do anything rash, Mr. Cavallo,” one of the detectives had said as they finally let him go.
Rocco had only grunted. Rash was exactly what he wanted to be. But, for his own reasons, he needed to keep a level head. As best he could.
It was still some time before he was able to speak to a doctor, and longer still before he was allowed to see his father.
His father, who had always been a strong and proud figure.
His father who had barely cracked—at least when anyone was looking—even when Rocco’s mother was cut down.
His father, who had declared only months prior that he had decided to retire and that on Rocco’s next birthday he would formally hand over the reins of the business .
It was that man who rested, unconscious, in a hospital bed in a private and guarded room.
Machines surrounded him, tubes and wires attached to his body.
The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor assured he was alive, even stable, but something about its mere necessity felt ominous.
IV bags hung on a mobile stand positioned near the top of the bed, keeping his body hydrated and pumping pain medication into him at pre-determined intervals.
Clear plastic tubes had been stuck up his nose to help him breathe and more electrodes attached to his skin in various places, quietly monitoring vitals.
There was even a catheter inserted where he would not appreciate when he woke, collecting his urine.
For all of Sunday night, Rocco Cavallo Senior remained unresponsive, his body covered in bandages and wires.
It was one of the hardest nights of Rocco’s life as he sat in the chair beside his father’s bedside, wondering if he was about to watch the man pass away. Was his first duty as the new head of the family going to be to bury his own father?
He couldn’t have been more grateful for Alessa’s presence at his side. She stayed, she offered comfort, she listened when the doctors gave him updates, and she refused to take any crap from family security when the less-educated men tried throwing her out.
It was sometime after one o’clock in the morning before she finally pushed to get him to sleep. To at least try.
Rocco blew out a haggard breath. “Today,” he began, his voice too quiet, too weak, “I was allowed to be a son worried about his father.” He lowered his stare from the motionless figure in the bed across from him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers twisting together in a tight grip.
“Tomorrow … I become Don Cavallo. Whether I like it or not.”
Alessa dropped to her knees in front of him, appearing almost as if from out of the shadows of the dimly lit room.
She pulled his taut hands into her own, holding tight, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles.
“Rocco, listen to me.” She waited, immobile, until he met her patient stare.
“The pain you feel right now is valid. No one can tell you not to feel it, no matter how long it’s been.
” She gave his hands a squeeze. “But it’s important to also remember that your father lives .
And by accepting your own rise a little ahead of schedule, not only do you honor him, you assure the entire family that the Cavallos remain strong.
The Cavallos were not defeated, and the Cavallos do not yield. ”
A lump formed in Rocco’s throat and he watched, overemotional and speechless, as she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his slackening fingers.
Then she straightened, the subtlest of smiles on her face, and added, “Tighten your circle. Rule as you would. And trust in the faith your father already has in you.”
As I would… Rocco slipped his hands from her grasp, cupped her jaw, and pulled her forward as he leaned down.
Their lips met in a brief whisper of a kiss, too chaste and too soft for his usual preferences, but somehow enough to soothe him.
When he met her gaze again, he grunted, “This place needs a couch, or a second goddamn bed.” He raked his eyes over her. “And that floor’s no place for you. ”
Her smile turned teasing and she stood. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be right here, and we’ve got two men outside with fresh eyes.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Please, at least try.”
Rocco curled his arm around her waist and tugged her onto his lap. “Fine.”
Alessa relaxed against him at his agreement, and they lapsed into silence.
The sounds of medical equipment rapidly rushed in around them, familiar and abhorrent all at once.
Rocco leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
He opened them again when a nightshift nurse came in, flicking on one of the main lights and moving around the room to check the various readouts.
Nothing in the woman’s expression or demeanor revealed alarm, and Rocco closed his eyes again when she departed.
Three more times this happened, the second nurse either forgetting or opting not to turn off the brighter light on her way out.
It wasn’t nearly his best night’s sleep. Definitely for all the worst reasons.
Em nudged him awake sometime later, when daylight seeped past the edges of the closed drapery. “Sorry to bother you, Rocco,” he said, his own voice coarser than usual.
Rocco blinked as his eyes adjusted. He’d finally crashed hard enough to tune out the revolving door routine, apparently.
Alessa stirred over him, her body shifting as she let out a soft groan. “Is it time?”
“Yeah,” Em replied.
Rocco almost opened his mouth to ask what they meant before it clicked.
Time to step up. His eyes moved to the figure in the bed.
Nothing looked different than when he’d finally relented and tried to sleep hours earlier.
His father remained unconscious, attached to tubes and wires and a beeping machine quite literally announcing his status of life.
The doctors were optimistic he would wake up, but had warned that even when he did, the road to anything resembling recovery would be long and unpleasant.
Rocco ground his teeth, drew a breath, and looked forward. “We need to freshen up, and I’m not gonna be worth shit without caffeine and calories.”
Alessa let out a soft laugh. “Ditto.”
Em’s lips twitched and he raised a small, reusable shopping bag. “Grabbed you some basics. There’s a change of clothes for both of you in the car. Sorry for the overstep. Breakfast will also be in the car.”
Alessa slid to her feet, accepted the bag, and looked back to Rocco. “I vote you keep this one. He might be loyal.”
Em scoffed.
Rocco felt his lips twitch. “I’ll think about it.”
Alessa stood with her back to the wall, Ignazio once again a statue at her side.
He’d checked himself out against doctor’s orders the day before, stubbornly determined to do his part in standing guard over Cavallo’s hospital room.
No pain showed on his face and the sleeves of his shirt covered any bruising from the shootout or the IV attachment, but he couldn’t hide the limp in his walk.
Alessa was kind enough not to ask about that.
She swept her gaze over the room around them once more.
They couldn’t use the offices at the hotel, of course, so Rocco had opted to commandeer an office at one of their alternate locations.
Specifically, a gentleman’s club tucked just out of sight of The Strip.
The office was decorated in dark tones with black paint, a dark mahogany desk, what appeared to be an entire bookcase using the Shou Sugi Ban technique, and furniture wrapped in strikingly deep maroon velvet.
Whoever had designed the space was definitely leaning into the dark and sexy vibe Alessa had glimpsed throughout the club when they’d crossed through it.
The main issue, arguably, was that the office was neither intended to host quite so many people, nor for the purpose of video calls. The lighting was shit. But Rocco was making do. And she, Ignazio, and Emanuele were standing back, out of the way, quiet and watchful.
The club manager, a polished, sharp-nosed, lean man named Tino, the Cavallo family’s consigliere , Ugo, and all four designated Capos were crowded with them into the club office.
Including her, Rocco’s security, and Rocco himself, there were a total of ten bodies—most of them broad-shouldered, muscular or pudgy—crammed into the private office.
Alessa imagined half that number would have fit comfortably.