Page 76 of Stolen Touches

“With the spilling of blood.” I take my phone and call Nino.

“I need twenty armed men,” I say the moment he picks up the call. “I’ll meet them in an hour at the gas station near Fitzgerald’s house.”

“They’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“Boss?” he adds. “Are you okay? Stefano called to tell me what happened.”

“Yes,” I answer. “Rocco lost three men. A dozen or so guests are wounded. A few of them seriously. At least two dead.”

“Should I call Ilaria?”

“No. This it too big of a fuckup to be covered up. Somebody’s probably already called 911. I’m leaving. Rocco will have to deal with the authorities. Call Greg. They’re going to need a lawyer here right away, before the police arrive.” I cut the call and turn to Arturo. “Go. I don’t want you here when the authorities show up.”

“You think Rocco can handle this?”

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s disposable. You’re not,” I say and head toward my car. It’s time to deal with Patrick Fitzgerald.

I’m turning on the ignition when my phone rings. Stefano’s number.

“We’re just entering the garage,” he says.

I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. She’s safe.

The sound of jostling comes from the other end of the line.

“Give me that fucking phone!” I hear Milene shout. “Jesus fuck, Salvatore! Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I’m fine, Milene. There’s something I have to handle. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

A few moments of silence follow before she speaks again. I notice her voice is shaking.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me. Don’t you daresend me away like that again,” she whispers. “Next time, you’re coming with me.”

I grind my teeth. She has no idea how hard it was to trust her safety in Stefano’s hands instead of getting her out of harm’s way myself.

“Stefano is faster than me, cara.”

“I don’t fucking care!” she snaps, and the line goes dead.

I lower the phone and stare at it. No one ever dares to hang up on me, and yet, she does it all the time. It’s strange.

* * *

I park my car in Fitzgerald’s driveway and head toward the front door, where Nino is waiting.

“Fitzgerald’s not here,” he says.

“Deegan?”

“Pasquale has him in the kitchen.”

“Let’s go and chat with him,” I say and walk inside the house, avoiding the fresh array of bodies under the dim porch lights.