Page 12 of Wounded King

I really, really have no idea what the hell is wrong with me. He's a cold-blooded killer.

There is no evidence for that, only rumors, Vi.

Oh, come on, his knuckles are bruised.

Could be from boxing. Many men box for fun.

He is the son of a mafia boss.

Yeah, and you have no idea whoyourfather is.

I have no idea where my internal debate is leading, but I have had enough. I need to get my head checked. I need to stop myself from walking down those basement steps again. My right foot is already hovering above the first step, ready for another descent. His father threatened me yesterday. Luciano threatened me the first day we met. I have no doubt Marcello isn't any better than them. Determined, I pull myself together, making a mental note to put some cream on the rash later.

The other man's voice interrupts my inner turmoil, "Keep me updated if you hear anything," he directs Luciano.

"I'd appreciate the same courtesy. I have a feeling I'll hear from you before I hear fromMisterOrsi." Luciano replies darkly, pronouncing the Mister like it's something dirty.

The stranger's exit leaves Luciano in silence. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, "Why didn't his father come by sooner?"

I don't know why it's been bothering me. I've dealt with all kinds of family members before: those who are just like Luciano and never leave the patient's side, and those who show up days or even weeks after they've been notified. For some reason, though, I thought mafia families had deeper ties. I would have expected Mr. Orsi to show up while Marcello was still in surgery.

It was hard to pay attention to the father-son relationship while Mr. Orsi was threatening me and choking Doctor Waspo, but I didn't get the impression that Mr. Orsi actually cared for his son.

"Carlos Orsi is a hard man," Luciano says after a moment of hesitation. "He did get daily updates."

I cock an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. "He was busy making contingency plans."

"Contingency plans?" I ask aghast. "As in Marcello dying?"

He nods.

I draw my brows together, unable to comprehend.

"There's a lot at stake here," Luciano tries to explain. "The family business…" He drifts off.

I kind of get it. I think. But no, not really. In my world, family is everything. If one of my family members were injured, I'd be there the moment I heard about it. Then again, I don't have an empire to run. Still. In what world is money more important than someone's son?

"Carlos's older son, Angelo, was killed last year. Marcello was recalled from Sicily to step in."

"Hmm," I reply noncommittally, eying the coffee he's still holding out like a peace offering.

"He went too far; he had no right to threaten you," Luciano says, shaking the coffee carefully, grinning his boyish grin at me.

"Damn you." I take the coffee, and his grin deepens. I push him out of the way so I can access the laptop and check on the night report.

"Where is he? Where is my love?" Three days later, a woman stumbles into the ICU. Her high heels clank on the floor, and her voice carries over the noise of beeping monitors. She is loudly made up and dressed as if she's on her way to a high-society funeral.

Luciano hands me my coffee for the day and sighs. "Mina. I was wondering when she would show up."

Over the last three days, our relationship has improved as much as it can after the threats he uttered—and no, it's not because of the coffee he keeps bringing or the donuts. I think we bonded some over Sophia's visit, as much as you can bond with a mafia man. There is something about him that garners my respect, even knowing what he is.

"Mina?" I echo, staring at the woman whose hair is piled so high I'm not sure it'll make it through the entrance. She's the epitome of a mafia wife.

"The fiancée. Although I have no clue what Marcello sees in her," Luciano explains.

A sudden pinch runs through my stomach. Of course a man like Marcello Orsi has a fiancée. How naïve of me not to consider it. I stare at the still form on the bed. Over the last couple of days, I've taken a few more tentative steps down the imaginary stairs, but now I'm backing up again.