He let out a laugh as she stammered, her cheeks turning even redder. “I was just joking, dear. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too . . .”
“Cain,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Just call me Cain.”
“Just call me Cain,” Kelsey mocked her father in a fake deep voice. “Are you done kissing ass now, Senator? Can we go inside?”
Cain swept his hands toward the entrance. “By all means, sunshine, go on in.”
Kelsey grabbed Haven’s hand and pulled her past her father. Cain watched them intently like he was studying their every movement, his gaze making Haven’s hair bristle a bit.
o;Tell me,” Corrado demanded. “I want to know who’s been supplying you.”
“But I—”
“Tell me!”
A shuddering breath escaped Carmine’s lips, with it the lone name. “Remy.”
Corrado’s eyebrows rose with question. “Tarullo?”
“Yes.”
Before he could elaborate, Corrado’s strong hand shot out and wrapped around his throat. The cardiac monitor went wild, frenzied beeping filling the room as Carmine struggled to take a breath, his lungs burning, begging for oxygen.
“Rule number one,” Corrado whispered, leaning close so he hovered over a thrashing Carmine, his mouth near his ear. “You never rat out your friends.”
He let go, and Carmine inhaled sharply. Tears stung his eyes, his vision blurred as he watched his uncle head for the door. “I’ll be back. I have to do some thinking on how best to handle you.”
The sun was just starting to rise outside, blinding light filtering into the window as it bounced off the windshields of the cars in the parking lot. Seven in the morning, he guessed, maybe earlier.
Carmine lay there on the lumpy, uncomfortable bed for a while, humoring the nurses as they poked and prodded, taking vials of blood and checking vitals, before he decided enough was enough. Tearing the IVs out, ignoring the blood running down his forearm, he disconnected himself from the machines. Doctors rushed in as the cardiac monitor flatlined, gaping at him as he pulled on his clothes. He ignored their pleas to get back in bed, brushing past them and walking straight out of the hospital against medical advice.
He didn’t make it very far. A block or so away, he strolled into a small tavern with a fluorescent OPEN sign flickering in the window. Head pounding viciously, eyes burning, and throat dry, he wanted nothing more than to drown in a drink.
“Just give me whatever’s on tap,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few crumpled-up bills.
“Do you have ID?” the bartender asked. Carmine glared at him, making no move to answer. He wasn’t sure if it was the look in his eyes—the I’ll-fucking-cut-your-balls-off-for-a-drink glare—or maybe the blood on his ripped shirt, but something changed the man’s mind. “Never mind. You look old enough to me.”
He poured Carmine a beer, setting it on the bar in front of him, and wordlessly took the cash. Carmine picked up his mug and took a sip, grimacing from the bitter taste. He was about to take a second one—bigger this time—when someone grabbed him from behind. He flew off the bar stool and hit the floor with a painful thud, the beer spilling all over the front of him.
“What the fuck?” Carmine spat as the person clutched his arm and dragged him toward the door. He saw his uncle as he finally got to his feet again. “Corrado?”
“You walk out of the hospital to go to a bar?” Corrado seethed, pulling him onto the sidewalk and toward his Mercedes parked along the curb. Carmine tried to yank his arm away, but Corrado’s grasp was too tight. He forced him in the passenger seat of the car before climbing in beside him and speeding away. “You nearly died last night.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. How the hell did you find me? Do you have a GPS chip planted on me?”
“Of course not,” Corrado said. “Although maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Is that what you want? Me to inject you with a chip like your father did your girlfriend?”
“Ex,” Carmine muttered. “She’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
“Lucky for her,” Corrado said. “That means she dodged a bullet . . . unlike you.”
Carmine tried to keep a straight face as his uncle reached over, pinching his cheek where he had been shot. The wound stung almost as much as his harsh words.
Corrado drove the two of them past Luna Rossa, his eyes surveying the club. “I’ve owned Luna Rossa for decades, and until last night there wasn’t a single incident here. Not one. Murderers and thieves come in and out of my doors every day, and it took a coward to blow my perfect streak.”
25